


Careful with that thing; it's been through hell

by artmitagehux



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fusion of Star Wars Legends and Disney Canon, Gen, It Gets Worse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sensory Deprivation, To Be Edited, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24268108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artmitagehux/pseuds/artmitagehux
Summary: When Cal is struck down mid-battle by an untimely Force echo, Trilla seizes the opportunity to bring him in as a prisoner of the Empire. There, she has one demand: for Cal to open the Jedi holocron leading directly to a new generation of Force-sensitive children, or watch everyone he knows get hunted down and destroyed.But Cal won't be broken so easily, no; not when he's got the fate of the Jedi Order in his hands.
Relationships: Cal Kestis & Trilla Suduri | Second Sister
Comments: 69
Kudos: 145





	1. Chapter 1

The Inquisition never surrenders. It’s one of the first lessons they’re taught, either out of fear of failure (and its consequences) or first-hand through their various trials. The stakes are higher for the former, but that doesn’t mean it’s any easier for the latter. 

And after all the pain, the battle scars from failure, the Second Sister knows it has only ever been for her sake. To make her stronger. To shed the lies of the Jedi Order.

The Second Sister keeps this in mind as she puts on her helmet, turning the world around her red.

She has another mission ahead. They’d received a report of a Force user on Bracca. As she reads the details off her datapad, she suspects it’s no one significant—likely just another Force-sensitive scrap rat playing Jedi Knight. Still, it's the Second Sister’s duty as an Inquisitor, and she won’t object if she _does_ end up finding a Jedi.

You see, the Inquisition never surrenders, and neither will she; not until she witnesses the remnants of the Jedi Order fall like the rest of them did.

* * *

“Did he give you any trouble?”

The Purge trooper shakes his head. “No, Second Sister. The tranquiliser stims were effective.”

“Good. Take him to his cell.”

Trilla stands by and watches as two troopers drag the limp body resembling Cal Kestis off the transport. They had taken the liberty of securing magnacuffs as well as a shock collar around his wrists and neck, something she notes with a nod. 

Trilla lets herself admire her newly-acquired prize for a moment longer before turning and heading the opposite direction. She makes her way down to the familiar transparisteel corridors of the Fortress’s lower floors. There’s a report to be made. It is something she’s not always pleased with doing, but this round calls for a different attitude. 

She is halfway to the Grand Inquisitor’s office when a set of blast doors open on her left to reveal the Ninth Sister.

It has been a few days since they last met, and it’s clear to Trilla that circumstances have not been kind to her. She’s missing a hand— _her dominant one,_ Trilla realises—and a new smattering of burn scars line her skin. 

It’s a miracle, really, that the Grand Inquisitor didn’t immediately find some way to dispose of her upon her return, instead choosing to let her recover in a (wasted) bacta tank. A feeling of contempt rises in Trilla’s chest at the sight of her, but she just nods passively. 

“Second Sister,” The Ninth Sister greets. “You managed to bring in the Padawan.”

“I have,” Trilla agrees, and because she’s feeling rather self-indulgent, adds, “A task I see you failed to accomplish.” 

Ninth Sister’s scarred lips twist into a sneer. “It was a moment of pity. A mistake I won’t make again.”

Trilla decides to let her believe that and continues on her way. Ninth Sister, annoyingly, begins to walk alongside her. 

“What are your plans for Kestis, anyway?” She asks.

Trilla allows herself to roll her eyes behind her helmet. “That is for the Grand Inquisitor and Lord Vader to decide. But you’re no stranger to what we do here, aren’t you? You understand.”

“Absolutely,” Ninth Sister grins. “But you _must_ have some ideas of your own. After all, he’s your...replacement, isn’t he?”

Trilla understands what she’s referring to. It takes everything in her not to ignite her saber and let Ninth Sister just _try_ to do anything at all with no hands, but she draws a breath and ignores the provocation. She’s got better things to do, none of which will be accomplished by cutting off one of the Ninth Sister’s limbs. (Oh, but what an amazing payback it would be.)

“I suggest you focus on your recovery, Ninth Sister,” Trilla says, increasing her pace so the Dowutin is left behind, “And let the Grand Inquisitor, Lord Vader and I deal with the Padawan ourselves."

* * *

No. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. 

One moment Trilla and he were fighting, the heat of their blades repelling each other, the red glow of Trilla’s saber dancing in her eyes. Then there was a break in her defence, and Cal didn’t think: he just reached out with the Force. As he intended, her saber deactivates—it flies through the air in a neat arc, and his hand closes around it.

What he doesn’t expect next is the torrent of pain that snakes through him—all of Trilla’s hate, her suffering, crushed into a single kyber crystal. Cal feels all of it.

Then come the memories of another life. They flow like a dam, drowning the pain with fear. A cave forms around him, and Cal gets the idea he’s simply waiting for the inevitable. He looks down and sees a Rodian youngling clutching his hand. Cere, looking younger and donning Jedi robes, stands in front of them. She looks ready to run. It’s this that makes him reach out to place a hand on her arm. 

“Don’t go,” He pleads. “We need to stick together.”

Cere shakes her head gently. “No.” She casts a glance at the foggy entrance of the cave. “I’m going to lure them away and then I’m going to circle back. Stay with the younglings, Trilla.”

She pauses, her expression more grave than ever. “May the Force be with you.”

Before Cal can call out his friend’s name, she’s gone, and he’s left with the younglings. 

“What’s going to happen?” The Rodian asks. He sounds terrified, and so is Cal, but he can’t show it. He’s got to be strong for them. He cups the youngling’s face. 

“It’s okay.” He draws a shuddering breath. “It’s okay.”

All of that fades in the blink of an eye, and then he’s restrained above the ground, looking at a pair of stormtroopers from an impossible height. Durasteel encases his wrists. Two panels, flanking him and alive with electricity, begin descending upon him. 

And then...pain. Pain so blinding that everything fades away once more. When Cal regains his sight he’s facing the chair he’d just been on—but this time, with Cere strapped to it. The anger returns: the hate, the pain and the misery, and at that moment Cal wants nothing more than to watch his former Master burn for her mistakes.

“Trilla,” Cere says, her voice thick with fear. He ignores this. A black helmet is presented to him. He takes it and dons it, keeping his gaze on Cere the entire time.

“No,” Cere whispers. “No. NO!”

It seems to happen in slow motion: the Jedi’s expression contorts into a kind of fury he’d never seen from her before. This is the last thing he registers before he’s on his side, the floor knocked out from under his feet and the air expelled from his lungs. 

Through the ringing in his ears and the rush of blood that clouds his vision, he sees Cere slip from the interrogation chair. Cere turns back to look at him, and for a fleeting moment, Cal wants to call out to her again. Maybe if he had she’d stay, but he never finds out if that’s true. The moment passes, and she leaves—for good, this time.

When the memories finally disperse Cal blinks and finds himself in a dark room. Is it even a room? He can’t see: there’s something tied over his eyes. 

“BD?” Cal whispers, knowing can no longer feel the comforting weight of his friend on his back. It still doesn’t answer the question of _where_ he is, though. _Okay, think. Think. What happened?_

Well, there was the fight, of course. He’d disarmed Trilla, ending the duel. What he didn’t expect, however, was the Force echo that struck soon after. She must’ve taken advantage of his moment of vulnerability and dragged him back to...wherever Inquisitors go after a long day of torture and death. 

That would at least explain the overwhelmingly bad feeling he gets just from being here. The air is clean, cold, artificial—and yet, his nose stings from the stench of great suffering and sorrow. He gets the feeling he’s somewhere closed in, away from the typical reaches of the galaxy. 

But that means— 

Oh no. _No._ The holocron. 

He sits bolt upright. The holocron! Trilla has it! The Empire has it...and now, all the children’s lives whose names are on that list are at stake.

Pain grips his chest. Cal sinks back onto his knees, barely registering the ache that throbs in his legs. But before Cal can let himself acknowledge that he failed, _again,_ a sort of anger rises in him.

No. This isn’t over just yet. He won’t give in, even if he comes out of this dead. 

Cal is distracted when he abruptly notices that something is binding his hands behind his back. He wiggles his fingers uselessly to confirm it. There’s also something heavy sitting around his neck: something he gets the feeling he wouldn’t like to trigger. 

He experiments first with the blindfold over his eyes. It’s wound tightly around his head, and yeah, it’s not moving. But that doesn’t discourage him: in fact, it reminds him of something...

* * *

Cal stands in the training room, holding in his small (and slightly clammy) hands his newly-constructed lightsaber. It sits in his grasp, slightly unfamiliar, like a new friend he’s clicked with but hasn’t found a similar interest to bond over just yet. At least he’s saved from having to look at his weapon for now, because he’s also blindfolded. 

Master Tapal’s standing somewhere in front of him. Through the Force, he can make out the figure of his Master, tall and stoic, his arms folded as if appraising him.

“Apprentice,” He begins. “Tell me about the Force. Where is it?”

His master is fond of asking him questions like these before each exercise. Cal knows, and feels, the answer by heart. “It is within us, it surrounds us, and it connects us.”

“Good. What does it have to do with our exercise today?”

Cal thinks. “The Force…keeps me connected to my allies and enemies in combat.”

“Just so. It aids you in anticipating what is to come. It leaves signs all around you, showing you the way. You will need to listen. Reach out.”

Before Cal can process the weight of the lesson, his Master’s saber is ignited and thrust just mere inches from him. He can feel the heat radiating across his face. He jumps back. 

“Master!” Cal gasps.

“Reach out,” Master Tapal repeats. “And listen.” He swings again. This time, Cal is half-ready: he ducks, igniting his saber. A moment of panic makes him swing wildly, hoping to hear the clash of their blades meeting, but alas, nothing. 

“Reckless,” His master tuts. 

“Give me a second, Master, please!” Cal exclaims. “I-I’m not ready—”

“Not just yet,” He agrees. “By the time you become a Jedi Knight, you will be. For now, you will need to learn to anticipate changes, and understand what it is to listen to the Force.”

Cal takes a deep breath. Listen to the Force. Listen to the Force. He can do that. 

When his Master attempts another swing, he’s ready: he saw it coming as if the blindfold wasn’t there at all. The satisfying sound of their blades clashing brings a smile to his face, and Cal doesn’t need the Force to tell him that Master Tapal is smiling, too. 

“Good, Padawan. Again.”

* * *

All these restored memories, abilities...and he seems to have forgotten the most basic one: reaching out. Cal lets himself revel in the comfort of his memories for a moment longer. Then he extends his connection with the Force. 

_Listen to the Force. Reach out._

Bit by bit, sensations come back to him and Cal can make out the fact that he’s in a room, a small one, the four walls a lot closer than he’d like. Gradually, a vague image of his surroundings forms in the dark. He’s in a cell, the walls made of an especially tough type of polished rock. There is an entryway of some sort, about a few feet in front of him, sealed off with a laser gate. He takes note of that. Maybe BD can—

Never mind. 

A pit of dread forms in the base of his stomach as he thinks about his friend. What happened to BD? Did he escape? He chooses to believe that BD somehow managed to: Trilla doesn’t know much about the droid, and, Force willing, would’ve let him go. 

And Cere. Greez. Merrin. Cal figures they must’ve seen the Second Sister arrive on Bogano. Again, what happened to the crew is a mystery, and he can only hope they made it out alive. 

Cal gets in his mind an image of Greez manoeuvring the _Mantis_ out of Bogano’s atmosphere, evading Imperial ships left and right; Cere scrambling the Empire’s signals and transmissions to make their escape easier; Merrin, conjuring her magick to keep them safe and their defences up. 

He can’t help but smile. Yeah. They’ll make it. 

Cal centres himself again and reaches out with the Force, but there is only so far he can go. He senses a few stormtroopers guarding the prison—guarding _him._ As far as he knows, he is the only one actually imprisoned here.

His next instinct is to keep reaching out. There _has_ to be a way to get out of here; he’s already wasted enough time letting himself get captured. Cal can’t afford to let Trilla win, not when he’s got a list of people depending on him.

Cal reaches out further, finding something he can move from his position. Maybe there’s a switch, or something controlling the laser gate that he can flip— 

The sound of blast doors opening redirect his attention. The Force around him rushes to meet whoever’s just entered the prison, and it doesn’t take him long to realise who it is. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

When Trilla enters his office, the Grand Inquisitor is carrying out the rather mundane task of reading reports. He’s dressed down, not even wearing his armour. His office is dark, making the red markings on his face appear almost black, his ashen skin tinted blue from the illumination coming off his datapad. His yellow eyes flit up to spare Trilla a glance when she approaches. 

“Grand Inquisitor,” She greets him with a nod. “I’ve returned from my mission to Bogano.”

The Inquisitor puts his datapad down and looks up at her, giving her his full attention. “And did you succeed?”

“Yes, sir.” Trilla straightens. “I retrieved the holocron and captured the Padawan.”

The Inquisitor almost looks surprised. He gives her a rare smile—not one entirely pleasant, she admits—that shows off all his pointed teeth. “Excellent work, Second Sister. I will be sure to relay word of your achievements to the Emperor; you will be rewarded for this.”

Trilla returns her own smile behind her helmet. She takes the holocron out and places it on the Grand Inquisitor’s desk. He reaches out for it. The Force bends to his will, but—

Nothing happens. 

“As expected,” He says calmly, leaning back in his chair. “A holocron like this can only be opened by a Jedi.”

Trilla forces herself to still her rapidly beating heart as she nods. “That won’t be a problem. Kestis can open it.”

“See that he does, Sister.” The Grand Inquisitor steeples his hands together. His face takes on a contemplative expression. “In fact, seeing that you dragged him in yourself, my guess is that you would enjoy having free rein to use whatever method it takes. Am I wrong in this assumption?”

“No,” Trilla admits, her mind racing.

“Remember that Lord Vader and I will expect results.” His yellow eyes meet her gaze through the helmet. “Is that understood?”

By results, he means one thing. It is the same fate that befell all of them. Trilla however, will be more creative. Because the Ninth Sister, despite being an irritant, is right: she _does,_ in fact, have some ideas of her own.

“Understood, Grand Inquisitor.”

Some of her excitement must show in her voice because the Grand Inquisitor’s lips twitch upwards in a smile. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Sister. I understand this is a project of particular…significance, for you.”

Trilla knows what he’s talking about. There is a difference between the Ninth Sister and his reference to her past, and it’s intent. While the Ninth Sister has always enjoyed provocation, no exceptions, the Grand Inquisitor was there from the time she shed the pain of her past, to when she first adopted the title of Second Sister. He’s encouraged her desire for revenge all these years. 

“You could say that,” She agrees. “I foresee Cere Junda will make an attempt to retrieve the holocron as well as her new Padawan. I’d like for her to witness firsthand what we’ve accomplished by then.”

“I would wish for that as well.” The Inquisitor clasps his hands together and stands. Trilla takes that as a cue for her to be dismissed. She nods in farewell. 

“Remember, Sister,” The Inquisitor says as Trilla turns away. “Results.”

* * *

Trilla knows she has to savour this opportunity. It’s not every day an Inquisitor gets to strip a Jedi of his principles and rebuild him in the Empire’s image. It will take time and a lot of effort, she predicts. The Inquisitorius might have underestimated the Cal Kestis before, but they’ve learned since. The Padawan won’t be an easy one to break—but he will, in due time. Just like the rest of them.

She reaches the dojo, where two Purge troopers train. She takes a moment to watch the pair spar from the viewing station high above them.

They’ve lost a considerable amount of men hunting down Cal, many of whom she’d trained herself. Trilla can’t help but wonder if their training is flawed, somehow. Still, it’s a sign that Kestis isn’t the Jedi he’d like to think he is: the proof lies in his hands, stained with the blood of innocent lives he’s taken along the way. 

She gleefully tucks this revelation away. It will be yet another tool to use against him.

Trilla makes her way down to the dojo, where the troopers pause their training to greet her. She nods at them, then passes through to the main entrance of the Prison Block. 

It’s easy to spot Cal’s cell when she enters. His is situated in the centre of the block, guarded by four Purge troopers. The troopers are just an extra precaution: judging by the state he’s in, along with the addition of enough restraints to hold a Wookiee down, their prisoner is not making it out of his cell. 

The tranquiliser stims must’ve worn off. The Padawan lifts his head, still blindfolded, as Trilla approaches. The Force stirs around him and a moment later his lips set into a firm line. 

“Trilla.” For a Padawan, Cal’s voice is laced with more poison than expected. She keeps this in mind with a smile. 

“Cal Kestis,” She greets. “We meet again.”

“Where are we?” He demands, getting onto his feet. “What have you done?”

“I ask the questions here,” She says calmly. “You’re in no position to interrogate anyone.”

She extends her hand towards the control panel configuring the laser gate; one flick of her hand, and it deactivates. 

Cal, either out of genuine underestimation of her power or just foolhardiness, immediately attempts to use the Force. Before the troopers can lift their weapons, Cal’s body seizes up as if strung on a cord. His scream echoes around the prison; he collapses on his flank, boneless, breath sounding hollow through his mouth.

“A shock collar,” Trilla answers an unasked question. “Specially designed for Force-sensitives. Pity you couldn’t control yourself, really,” She sighs, watching the Padawan twitch on the cold floor. “Consider this a lesson to you.”

Cal takes a long minute to recover. Finally, he straightens with a visible effort, glaring up at her through his blindfold. “You’re, you’re…” He can’t seem to come up with anything. Trilla takes amusement in that. 

“ _I’m_ the one who decides your fate,” She finishes for him. “ You are in the hands of the Empire now, Cal. Things can be as easy or as painful as you want it to be, but there is no running for you. Not anymore.”

One flick of her wrist and Cal is flung back into his cell, the laser gate reactivating. Another flick and the blindfold slips off. He blinks, readjusting, but his eyes quickly focus on Trilla and he fixes her with a glare.

“You can’t keep me here,” He says.

She smiles at that. “We’ll see."

She pulls out the holocron. Cal’s gaze is instantly drawn to it; she can see a plan attempting to take shape behind those wide blue eyes. 

“Interested?” She waves the holocron. “I have a proposition for you. As of now, this is tied to your friends’ lives. Open it, or we go after them.”

“Never,” Cal mutters.

“You would let your friends die?” Trilla asks, squatting down in front of him. She tilts her head to the side. “I thought they mattered more to you, Cal.”

“They won’t let themselves get caught.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself rather than her. 

“And if they do?” Trilla takes off her helmet then so she can look him properly in the eye. “You’ll be responsible for their deaths, you know. Cere’s blood will be on your hands, as well as the little Latero's and the Nightsister's.”

Cal’s eyes narrow. With apparent effort, he tears his gaze away. But she’s not done. 

“Do you really want that to happen?” She leans closer. “You’ve already cost your Master his life. And your friend…Prauf, I believe? What would they say, if they could hear you refusing to do the one thing that could save your friends?”

Cal clenches his jaw. “Bringing their names up won’t work. I won’t let you get to me, Trilla.”

“We’ve been through this.” She stands, ignoring the use of her name. “The Empire always gets what it wants. It’s only a matter of time before I make you break.”

“I’d rather die.”

Ah, Jedi selflessness. Typical. She smiles. “What use is there in that? I’ll just find another Jedi to open the holocron.” She holds his gaze. “I’m giving you the chance to spare your friends, Cal. To make this as painless for both them and yourself as possible.” She puts her helmet on again. “I’ll give you some time to reflect on it. We’ll talk later.”

Trilla walks off then, leaving Cal in the pool of guilt and self-doubt he’s built for himself. It will only be a matter of time before he drowns.


	3. Chapter 3

Some tension bleeds out of him once Cal is sure the Second Sister is gone. There is a tightness in his chest, one formed when Trilla reminded him of Cere, Greez and Merrin. He takes a shuddering breath, but he’s since learned to control it.

Something he can’t ignore, though, is the pain that pulses through his body. The initial shock had been like nothing he’d felt before. He has faced the full strength of the sonic stunners used by the Haxion Brood, but this shock collar is on an entirely different calibre. He’s aching all over. Every nerve ending feels like it’s been dunked in ice water.

Cal gets the feeling it’s activated when he makes use of offensive Force abilities, but the pain deters him from wanting to test this theory out for now. He leans against one of the walls, shivering, trying to get his bearings back. 

Maybe it’s a moment of weakness or an attempt at strength, but Cal thinks hard about Master Tapal then. He closes his eyes. When he opens them, his Master is standing before him.

He knows it’s not him. It can’t be him. And yet, seeing Master Tapal in a place like this brings him comfort. 

“Padawan,” Master Tapal says. He’s in the cell with him, his towering figure easily filling the space of the cell. He sits down cross-legged opposite him. “This isn’t an ideal situation.”

 _No,_ Cal thinks. _It isn’t._

“Do you remember what I said about our paths as members of the Jedi Order?” He asks gently.

Cal’s head is pounding. His lips feel dry, cracked. But he opens his mouth and recites the words. “‘The obstacles in your path define the path. What stands in the way becomes the way.’”

“Correct.” His Master reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder, and Cal can nearly feel his warmth. “ _My_ path has reached its end, Cal. Yours, on the other hand, is far from over, however riddled with obstacles it may be.”

“I understand, Master.” His vision’s turning foggy. Master Tapal’s figure starts to lose its solidity. “I won’t…I won’t give in.”

His eyelids feel like weights then, and he lets them drop for a second. Surely Master Tapal will forgive his manners, just this once...

When Cal opens his eyes, his Master’s gone, and he’s all alone again.

He tries to rest afterwards. There’s no real position to get comfortable in: his hands are still bound behind his back. The collar keeps his neck straight.

Cal supposes that this is all part of Trilla’s scheme to break him, little by little. It’s in line with the Empire’s methods, at least. Or so he’s heard. The thought calls back the Ninth Sister’s words, of what she’d said before he’d defeated her. 

“Just wait ‘til the torture!” She swings as Cal parries wildly. “Isolation! Mutilation! And your friends—”

“I won’t let you touch them!” 

Renewed strength had taken over him. He didn’t have time to consider her words before she was gone, cast out of the Shyyyo bird’s nest. Come to think of it, he never really chose to think about what she’d said. What better time to do it than now? He's got all the time Trilla wants to give him to reflect, or whatever.

The idea of torture doesn’t scare him, he thinks. But that’s always easy to say when you’re not suffering.

Isolation...well, he’d mostly been by himself on Bracca for five years. 

And mutilation? He chooses not to dwell on that. 

With these uneasy conclusions settling in his mind, Cal sinks into a disturbed rest.

Sleep doesn’t bring the welcome comfort he’d been hoping to receive.

In his dreams, he’s standing atop the wing of the star destroyer with Prauf again. The storms are particularly brutal this time; he can barely make out the shape of his friend through the rain. Prauf is peering into the Jedi starfighter, shouting above the noise about “how many credits they’re going to get paid for such a score”.

Cal knows what is coming. The advantage of foresight doesn’t help, though: just as he opens his mouth to warn his friend, the cables snap with the sound of lightning striking. But at least he’s ready—he reaches out a hand, and Prauf is lifted into the air.

“Whoa!” He shouts. “Cal, what are you doing?” But Cal isn’t listening. He has a chance to fix this, to save his friend, consequences be damned. Cal leaps. The Force carries them safely up to the bridge of the destroyer, while the wing crashes to the depths below.

Prauf stands in shocked silence, eyes fixated on the spot they’d been just moments before, while Cal’s eyes are on their surroundings. His eyes scan the sky until they land on a probe droid a distance away.

_I can’t make the same mistake again._

“What—” Prauf starts as Cal stretches out his hand again. Under his hand, and with the guidance of the Force, the probe droid crumbles with a dying _bwoo_. Its pieces fall into the open mouth of the Ibdis Maw below.

Relief washes over him. He turns back to tell Prauf it's safe, that they’re okay; no one’s dying today. But his friend just takes a step back from him.

“Cal?” Prauf asks. “What’s...what’s going on?”

“You died,” Cal says, knowing he isn’t making much sense. “The last time we were here, I was too late, and you died.”

Prauf’s expression becomes even more puzzled. “But Cal, I’m already gone. You can’t change what happened any more than you can change what happened to your Master.”

“I know. I know.” Cere said the same thing, word for word, once. “But please. Let me do it right, just this time.” His voice cracks.

Prauf opens his mouth to respond, maybe to offer words of comfort, but Cal never finds out. Before he can react, his friend’s chest is broken by the red point of a lightsaber.

“NO!” He lunges forward, his weapon already in hand. “No, Prauf—!"

Prauf’s body is cast aside. And behind him, is...

Not Trilla, no. He’s not afraid of her. It’s someone horribly familiar; someone far worse.

Himself. 

Cal’s scream dies in his throat, replaced with anger. He doesn’t let this imposter, this nightmare version of him, make a move. He makes one strike, two strikes before he realises that this Cal isn’t even making an attempt to defend himself. In fact, he’s grinning, the smile unnatural, unlike any expression he’s ever made.

“Good,” The imposter sneers. The glow of his blade makes his eyes shine red. “Strike me down. Watch what becomes of you.”

“I won’t become like you,” Cal insists, and the words sound childish even to him. His copy laughs, deactivates his saber, and stretches a gloved hand out to him.

“Too late.” The copy grabs his wrist and twists. 

Cal finally screams, but the imposter and the storm around them dissolves and suddenly he’s back in his cell. 

“Having nightmares, Jedi?” A voice taunts. Cal looks around wildly and sees a Purge trooper stooping in front of his cell. He’s holding a tray. 

“Can’t believe I’ve been assigned mealtime duty,” The trooper continues, more to himself. “But I suppose it’ll be entertaining.”

The trooper presses a button outside his cell. There’s a _click_ , and the magnacuffs around his wrist unlock and fall to the floor. At the same time, the laser gate deactivates, and the trooper pushes the tray in. Before Cal can contemplate getting to him, the gate is back up again.

“I know what you’re thinking,” The Purge trooper laughs, stepping back. “Better not try anything funny, kid. You’ll just land yourself in more trouble.”

Cal doesn’t have anything to say to that, which just seems to fuel the trooper’s bravado.

“What’s the matter? Accepting defeat?” He chuckles. “I thought you Jedi were stronger than this.”

Cal thinks back to all the Purge troopers he’s encountered and defeated throughout his mission. Although tough, none of them had been particularly difficult to beat in a fight. This trooper is so close. His guard is probably down. It would be so easy to reach out a hand and drag the trooper just a little _too_ close, as an ‘accident’.

The idea lasts a second before the guilt from having thought of it at all crashes down on him. No, he can’t do that: he’s a Jedi Padawan. A Peacekeeper. Aggression is not the Jedi way.

He can’t turn out like _him_. 

Cal repeats these words to himself a few times until he’s sure he believes it. By then, the Purge trooper seems to have gotten bored; he walks a visible distance and shifts back into a neutral guarding stance.

He looks down at the tray he’s been brought. A misshapen lump of bread sits miserably next to a cup of water. His first thought is to not trust whatever they give him, but dammit, he’s hungry. 

He turns away from the tray, facing one of the walls instead. He can do this: going without food is something he’s no stranger to. To distract himself, Cal decides to meditate. 

Lately, meditation has become easy. Now that he’s restored most of his abilities forgotten after the Purge, taking a moment every now and then to centre himself and reflect on his journey has only become a reprieve from the trials ahead—it’s no longer a challenge by itself. 

Cal closes his eyes and the walls melt away. 

He’ll be okay, he tells himself. The Empire may have him now, but they’re bound to slip up. He’ll be patient, wait for an opportunity to escape. And if he can, burn this place—wherever this is—to the ground.

He meditates until he loses track of time. It might have been hours, or just minutes—the prison offers no clues—but when Cal opens his eyes again the bread is still there, tempting the ache in his abdomen. 

He weighs the risks. It could very well be poisoned for all he knows, but then he remembers that Trilla still needs him.

“Nice to be useful,” Cal mutters to himself.

He picks the bread up. It’s solid. Vaguely rocky. He debates tossing a piece through the laser gate just to see what it would look like, but his stomach grumbles in protest.

He eventually gives in and takes a bite out of it. It’s tasteless and goes down like a mouthful of sand—but he’s had worse. Another five bites, paired with five suspicious sips of water, and it’s gone. 

Cal looks at the pitiful crumbs on the tray, unsatisfied. He pinches them between his fingers, watches them fall. 

Later, he learns that crumbs vaporise when thrown at a charged, electron-powered laser gate.


	4. Chapter 4

Cal doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he’s suddenly woken by a deep ache in his side. He groans, curling away instinctively. He cracks an eye open to see the same Purge trooper from before, a deactivated electrobaton in hand.

“Ow,” He says. “You again?”

The trooper doesn’t have the same air of smugness from earlier. “Get up, scum.”

He becomes aware of a figure behind the trooper. Trilla is back—that explains it. Cal sits up, pinning his defences back into place. That’s when he realises that the cuffs are back around his wrists; they must’ve done it while he was asleep. It bothers him, how he ever let them get close enough to do that at all. _Must’ve been something in the food._

She has her helmet and cape off, perhaps hoping to extrude an aura of informality. (Or that she doesn’t want to get either of those things dirty. Either is possible, really.) 

“Cal,” She says, with the audacity to sound gentle, “have you made up your mind yet?”

“About helping you with the holocron, or about wanting to die? Because I’ll have to admit, it’s really leaning to the—”

“You know very well what I’m asking for,” Trilla interrupts him. She lifts the holocron to his eye level. “So will you choose self-interest or your friends?”

“No,” He says firmly, bracing himself for another shock. It doesn’t come, but Trilla straightens, regarding him with a sigh.

“I didn’t want to have to resort to this, Cal, but I promised the Grand Inquisitor progress.” She nods at the Purge troopers flanking her. 

They get close to him, uncomfortably close, and they each grab an arm of his. But Cal isn’t going to stand for it—he kicks out, getting the trooper on his left between the legs. The trooper swears, and for a moment he thinks he might’ve shaken him, but then the trooper’s fingers dig into Cal’s arm and he’s left cringing from the ache.

The other trooper sees his opportunity. He delivers a heavy blow to his stomach that makes Cal double up, the air knocked out of him. It’s strange: he’d seen him coming, and yet he couldn’t react in time. It feels like he’s stuck in the aftermath of a Force slow, somehow.

Cal decides then and there that he won’t be accepting any suspicious lumps of bread or water anytime soon. 

Trilla stands by as the troopers drag him out of his cell. They toss Cal to his knees in front of her. She looks down at him, a small smile playing at her lips.

“It is pointless to struggle, you know,” She says softly. “The sooner you see that the easier this will be for all of us.”

“Easier for you to kill children, you mean,” He accuses. 

Trilla lets out a small laugh that gets on his nerves. “It’d be rather foolish, I think, if we were to get rid of them that way. No. The Empire has plans to save them.”

“We have very different ideas of what it means to be saved,” He says, even as he feels his chest get tight. The children? _Saved_ by the Empire? Just repeating it in his head sounds ridiculous. 

She nods in agreement. “Naturally. In time though, you’ll come to find that I’m right.” 

She waves her hand. The troopers hoist him back onto his feet. “Walk, Jedi,” The left one demands, aggressively shoving him forward. 

He half-walks, half-stumbles in whatever direction they’re taking him. They’re in a prison block of sorts—connected to a tower, or a base, perhaps. The cells, all empty, extend all around him.

Now that he’s out of the cell, it is hard to deny the bad energy surrounding him. It’s his Force echoes, Cal knows, that is amplifying every bad feeling he has tenfold. It has never been as bad as this, though—it has something to do with the darkness here. It’s the same darkness that unmade Trilla and the Ninth Sister. 

Trilla is oblivious to all of this. She walks ahead, her air of self-satisfaction evident in her walk. She must think she’s won—an assumption that irritates him.

They reach the doors of a turbolift. Cal gets a painful reminder of his droid friend as Trilla uses the biometric scanners to get the door open. At first, he assumes they’re going to a different floor, but the other side of the lift opens to reveal a…

Actually, what _is_ that?

It looks like a cross between a lava mine and a tower. He doesn’t know. 

The tower is a distance away, partially shrouded by mist. It occurs to him that having mist indoors is nothing normal, but he doesn’t know enough about the base (or bases in general) to come to any conclusions.

But there’s something familiar about this place... 

Trilla heads over to a control panel, interacting with the buttons, and a walkway extends out from under them to another platform ahead of them. She turns to look at him. There’s a shine in her eyes that Cal doesn’t particularly like. 

“That is the Citadel,” She begins, pointing at the tower. “The place Cere cracked under the Empire’s hand and left me for dead.”

That’s when it dawns on him. It’s familiar because he’d seen it in Trilla’s Force echoes. Remnants of the anger and pain come back to him and Cal has to bite his lip to suppress a shiver.

Cal contemplates this form of leverage he has over her. Maybe, just maybe, he can get through to Trilla, somehow. He knows the real story of her past—he should at least try. But is now the right time?

He decides to take a gamble.

“Trilla,” He begins. Trilla quirks an eyebrow. “I saw what you’ve been through.”

Her lip curls. “Oh?”

“You’ve experienced great suffering,” He says, stopping even as the troopers push him forward. “It’s not too late to let it go.”

Something flashes in her eyes, but it's gone before Cal can determine what it is. 

“Let _go?_ ” She sounds incredulous. She steps closer, lips twisting into a sneer. “I’m stronger now because of the pain.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to use it against others,” He insists. “Trilla, you don’t have to serve the people who’ve hurt you.”

A pause. Then before he can blink, Trilla has her lightsaber drawn and held to his throat. 

“Do you see this?” She hisses. The red blade is close enough to feel uncomfortably hot—Cal leans away, but the troopers hold him firm. “It’s too late. I _chose_ to reject the light side of my own accord. Nothing you say can change that.”

Trilla deactivates her lightsaber and sweeps away from him, not bothering to disguise her agitation. She storms ahead to the platform, where she activates another bridge to the citadel.

The troopers shove him along. He goes numbly, his eyes on her turned back. Okay, so maybe he’s nowhere near getting through to her just yet, but he’s not discouraged. For now, Trilla is shaken, at least. 

This may just become a race to see who breaks first. Cal tells himself that it won’t be him.

They finally reach the doors of the Citadel. Cal sneaks a glance at the ground below them—and finds that he can’t see any, just an ocean of what looks like molten rock shrouded by more mist. 

Trilla turns back to look at him as the doors open. She’s collected herself; the sadistic smile is back. And it’s within good reason, too. Behind her, the interrogation chair comes into view.

Cal fights the growing fear that’s kept him alive as the troopers push him closer. He can do this. He _can_ do this. And yet, the pulsing in his veins is getting louder, the squeezing in his chest almost painfully tight. He needs to run. Now. 

Trilla sees his reaction. “Are you scared, little Padawan?” She teases. She glides over to the control panel and switches it on. The chair comes to life with a whirring sound. Purple sparks start to dance between the metal slabs.

“Get him ready,” She tells the troopers.

The feeling is overwhelming now. Perhaps the fact that he knows what is coming just makes it worse. 

“Don’t let them break you,” He hears Master Tapal say out of nowhere. It’s not necessarily something he’d say, but Cal isn’t sure he’d believe it if it came from himself. He glances to his right to see his Master standing there. It’s wrong. He can’t be in a place as dark as this.

“Go,” Cal whispers. “Please.” Master Tapal watches him, his face partially shrouded in shadow. Then he nods, and the shadows swallow the rest of him up.

“Go?” The Purge trooper repeats. “We’re not going anywhere, Jedi. And neither are you.”

They drag him towards the chair now, undoing his magnacuffs as they go. It looms over them, the air live with electricity. And Cal finally has to admit he’s afraid. 

_Don’t let them break you. Don’t let them break you. Don’t let them, don't let them..._

* * *

Trilla has her hand poised over the control panel when a shout makes her glance up. 

Cal is on his knees, eyes screwed shut. He’s screaming. The Purge troopers stand close, their weapons drawn, their stance shifting.

“What happened?” She demands, storming over to them. The troopers step back upon reading the anger on her face. 

“Nothing, Second Sister. We tried to secure him to the chair and…” He gestures to the Padawan thrashing on the floor. “This happened.”

The chair isn’t even activated yet. Trilla stares down at him, mind racing for an explanation. “Restrain him properly,” She says.

The troopers each grab on to one of Cal’s shaking arms and hoist him up into the chair. His eyes are squeezed shut, seeing something none of them are privy to. Then he’s abruptly still, and his hands ball into fists. 

“You’ll never take anything from me!”

Trilla watches, bewildered. A moment passes, and his expression breaks.

“No, no,” He moans, twitching. “Stop. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you where they are. Just stop.”

_Where they—?_

That’s when it clicks. The revelation slams into her so suddenly that she can’t hide the grin that pushes past her lips. Then Trilla lets herself laugh. 

Oh, this is wonderful. So very wonderful. 

Breaking Cal Kestis may just prove to be so much easier than she’d thought. 


	5. Chapter 5

Cal’s been in pain a lot. Jedi are used to getting injured, getting back up, and learning from the mistakes that caused them to get hurt in the first place.

He supposes he knows pain. His first brush with it came when he was playing a game of Droid Tag with his friends back in the Jedi temple. One reckless turn while trying to get away from a seeker droid, and suddenly five-year-old Cal was flat on the ground, both knees and elbows scraped up. Master Yoda himself had spared a moment to patch him up, though not without gently lecturing him on the hazards of running while doing so. It had hurt, yes, but Cal also felt very special afterwards. 

Since then, his life has been tainted here and there with pain. The more significant ones stand out in his mind, like when he nearly fell out of the Jedi Temple on Ilum trying to obtain his kyber crystal or when he, embarrassingly enough, singed a finger cleaning his lightsaber once. (Needless to say, that lesson _definitely_ stuck.)

And of course, this mission hasn’t been without injuries. How many times had he fought Trilla before getting captured? And what about all the times he’s been dangerously close to dropping off a cliff or taken out by those Nightbrothers? 

Perhaps one similarity between him and Trilla is the fact that pain has only solidified their endurance for survival. 

But he’s sure, quite sure, that Trilla hasn’t yet had to endure the burdens of anyone other than her own—all at once.

Trilla’s lightsaber only showed him her story, _her_ suffering. Just when Cal thinks that’s enough, the interrogation chair demands more than that. 

Once his hands brush the seat, a burning sensation spreads, prickling up his arm and bringing darkness with it. He closes his eyes. 

And without meaning to, the world around him fades away.

Images whip by. He sees stormtroopers, Purge troopers, Clone troopers, people who look like Inquisitors; Sand dunes, vast oceans, sprawling grasslands, bustling cities; green, blue, red lightsabers, all locked in battle; a Wookiee Jedi, a Pau’an Inquisitor; at one point, even Master Yoda, engaged in battle. 

His ears burn with the sounds of screams, of terror and anger alike. Someone shouts, “Look out!” on his left. A hundred blaster bolts whizz by his head and he feels the burn of a lightsaber somewhere in his chest. And maybe his legs, too. He sinks to his knees in a field stained dark red. Above, the skies are dotted with star destroyers. The air reeks of smoke and death.

The images go faster then, and both the fields and the sky vanish. He’s a Twi’lek in Jedi robes, strapped to the chair screaming, pleading for mercy that never comes. Needles from the chair dig into his arms and for a second he sees blue, blue like eyes or maybe blood but he can’t remember why that’s important _before_ _everythingfadestoblack—_

He’s an Abednedo warrior now, shaking in his restraints. The pathetic troopers in front of him shuffle their feet nervously, blasters trained at his head. 

“You’ll never take anything from me!” He bellows and the troopers step back. But in the distance there’s a dark figure cloaked in black and suddenly the air is stolen from his, his— 

He’s human now. Also in Jedi robes. There’s something familiar about this, but he’s in too much pain to focus on that just now. The Pau’an Inquisitor is back, standing patiently before him. 

“I will ask again,” The Inquisitor begins. “Where are they?”

“No,” Cal chokes out. For a moment he sees Trilla. He sees her huddled in a cave, fear etched into her expression. She’s holding on to a few younglings who cling to her like a lifeline. 

But then the image of his Padawan fades when the electric panels connected to his temples come to life again— _oh Trilla I am so sorry_

_Trilla_

_TRILLA—_

There’s no escaping the pain: it penetrates every dark corner of his mind, trying to rip him apart from the inside. When it’s over he slumps in the chair, every cell in his body screaming, screaming. 

“No,” Cal groans. “No.”

As he attempts to pick up the pieces of his mind he vaguely recalls that he has to do _something_ , something involving someone, involving somewhere—but all that is gone now. Cal just knows he has to put an end to this, somehow. 

“Stop,” He finally whispers. The Inquisitor lifts his hand from the control panel, waiting, and the relief that floods him is disgusting. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you where they are. Just...stop.” 

The Inquisitor opens his mouth to speak just as the cycle continues, blurring so he vanishes, replaced first by the dark figure again, then the Sisters. Each time, Cal is someone different. Each voice, varying in distress, grows louder—there must be a hundred, two hundred—until they finally blur together. 

_Must find—_

_No, don’t, please—_

_Kill them, kill th—_

_Must—_

_Plea—_

_I—_

Then everything falls silent, and his world crashes into darkness.

* * *

Cal goes limp like a puppet severed from its strings. 

The Purge troopers seem at a loss for what to do next. They turn to look at Trilla, anticipating orders. She steps up to the chair where Cal lies slumped, the restraints barely holding him in place.

“Kestis?” She calls, because using his first name seems too personal all of a sudden. The Padawan remains immobile—and for a passing second, Trilla thinks he might be dead. She waits, holding her breath. Then his chest starts to rise and fall. 

“Take him to the medic droid," She says, shaking her head. "Ask for the stims.” They’re done for now.

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time the troopers undo the restraints, she’s already boarded the turbolift back up. She has some new business to attend to. She’ll get an update on him later.

Trilla meets the Grand Inquisitor and Lord Vader on the way to the Archives. The two are never close, never have been, and she suspects it has something to do with the Emperor and their joint authority over the Inquisition. Third Brother and Sixth Sister are particularly fond of swapping theories, but Trilla has never been one for gossip. 

She quickly dips her head. “Grand Inquisitor. Lord Vader.”

“Second Sister,” The Inquisitor greets. “I trust your assignment is going well?”

She risks a glance at Vader. “Yes, sir. I’ve obtained valuable insight on Cal Kestis.”

Vader speaks up. “And the holocron?” 

“Not just yet,” Trilla focuses on her boots. “But I suspect I will succeed in persuading him soon.”

“I hope you do, for your sake,” Vader warns. “I would hate to have to interfere.”

A wave of sudden anger washes over her, and Trilla keeps her gaze focused down. This isn’t Vader’s task. It’s hers _._ What does _he_ need with the Emperor’s favour? He already has it. 

She catches herself before her disdain can show on her face. “That won’t be necessary, my Lord.” 

“Nevertheless,” Vader continues, “I wish to test the extent of his abilities. If he truly has survived thus far, Cal Kestis has the potential to make an excellent Inquisitor.”

Now that she can agree with. Having witnessed the Padawan blunder, yet somehow persist every step of the way, Trilla can’t deny he has _some_ talent, at least. 

“A test, Lord Vader?” She asks. “I can—”

“No need, Sister,” Vader cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “Simply provide him with an opportunity to display his skill. I will conduct my own assessment.”

It’s not until she’s dismissed and back on her path to the Archives that Trilla realises the anger she’d felt earlier is not out of spite for the Dark Lord: it’s of the defensive sort, the same type she once possessed against the Empire, back when she was left to defend a group of younglings by herself—and yet somehow still believed in having a choice.

* * *

He’s alive, somehow.

He sits up with a start. Where’s Hess? He’d told her he’d come back with supplies, but then the Empire came and—

Wait. Who’s Hess?

_Who am I?_

He looks down. He’s wearing a black and orange poncho, the uniform worn by workers under the Scrappers Guild on Bracca. 

Oh. 

The memories fall back into place then. There’s no ‘Hess’, no supplies, no raids. He’s Cal Kestis, and he’s alive somehow. 

The realisation that he’d forgotten himself for a moment scares him. He’s never done that before. “I’m Cal.” He starts to recite. “Cal Kestis. Eighteen years old. Born on Coruscant. I'm a Jedi Padawan. My Master was Jaro Tapal. My friends...my friends are BD-1. Cere Junda. Greez Dritus. Merrin.” 

Four friends in the whole wide galaxy—that’s more than he’s ever had in five years. He’s grateful.

For now, though, he’s all alone. He looks around and something else comes to his attention: this isn’t his cell. 

Instead, he’s in a room flooded with golden daylight. He’s in a small bed made up of a kind of straw-coloured fabric. There’s something intensely familiar about all this—not familiar like when he’d seen through Cere’s or Trilla’s eyes but _familiar_ , like he’s been here before. 

Cal reaches out to feel the cloth under his hands and for the first time, there’s nothing. No echoes. Just silence. 

He decides to stand up to explore then. His feet hit soft, carpeted ground, nothing like anything the Empire has to offer. And as if it weren’t already strange enough, his heel collides with what looks like a small model starfighter as he stands.

_What?_

Before he can investigate further, a door he hadn’t noticed before opens and a woman steps through.

She’s not just _any_ woman, though. 

Cal recognises her eyes, blue like the Coruscant sky and creased with a laugh, as the first pair he had ever seen. Her hair, long and sweeping, is coloured just like his. And her smile— _Force,_ _her smile_ —strikes warmth in his chest. 

He can’t breathe. No, this can’t be real. He hasn’t seen her in years—his entire life, even—not since the Order found and took him to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant to study the ways of the Force. If asked, he can’t readily recall what she looks like—all he has left are warm hands, featureless smiles, and a whispered: “I love you”.

And yet here she is, standing before him, dressed in the same flowing red and brown dress she’d worn the day he left, and suddenly Cal remembers _everything_.

“Mom?”

She beams. “Hello, dear.”

He’s speechless, caught between disbelief and wanting more than anything in the galaxy for it to be really her. How can he be sure?

“Well, aren’t you going to give your mother a hug?” She prompts, spreading her arms. 

Cal takes an uncertain step forward. Then another. And another, until he’s in her embrace. She feels _real._ Real and solid as if he never left.

“How?” He whispers. " _How?_ ”

She pulls him an arm’s length away and takes him in with a smile. Cal’s suddenly embarrassed at the state of his appearance, especially his dirty poncho. But like all mothers, his mom doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Look at you,” She says. “You’ve grown so big and strong.” Her hand, warm and soft, reaches to cup his cheek. “My handsome Jedi boy.”

Cal swallows a lump in his throat. “Not…not just yet, Mom. I...my Master is dead. I never completed my training.”

Her smile turns apologetic. “Oh, Cal. I’m so sorry.”

Thinking about Master Tapal seems to break through the wonder of getting to see his mom again. Cal remembers he still doesn’t know why, or _how,_ he’s here. And he still has a mission to complete. 

Suddenly, nothing seems to make sense.

“Mom,” He begins carefully. “Why are you here?”

His mom’s smile becomes sad. She takes his hand and runs her thumb over it. “That’s because you wanted me to be.”

His chest starts to tighten again. “But, but…I mean, I haven’t seen you in years. Why now?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t answer that, Cal.”

Force, his head hurts. So does his heart, and at that point all Jedi teachings about the dangers of forming attachments are at risk of flying out the window. But Cal meets her eyes and finds himself making a choice. 

“I have to go,” He says. “There's something I need to do.”

His mom nods, her eyes misty. “I know, darling."

Cal links hands with her once more. He can have this, just this once. Like in his Force echoes, the room begins to fade, blurring into a vortex of colours. His mom, still solid, still warm, gathers him into one last hug. 

By the time Cal pulls away, there’s not much of her left: just a featureless smile, her warm hands still locked with his, and a whispered, “I love you”.

Then he blinks, and he’s back in the real world. His hand is still stretched out, but the person he expects is no longer there—instead, Trilla stands in his mother’s place, wearing a cruel smile. 

“Sweet dreams, Cal?” She asks softly.

Sickened, he yanks his hand away, which just makes her laugh. She lifts what appears to be a purple stim canister. “You’ll have these memory stims to thank. They’re designed to dig up the deepest crevices of our minds.”

“Yeah, it was nice.” Cal narrows his eyes. “Doesn’t work that well, though.”

“No matter,” She says dismissively, waving her hand. “Are you aware that you talk in your sleep, Cal? You were very informative.” Her smile grows wider. “Perhaps one of these days I should pay your dear mother a visit."

The words stab a sword of ice in his chest. He sits up, hands clenched into fists. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” He threatens. 

“Perhaps,” Trilla agrees. She twirls the canister between her fingers. “But I just may find the courage to, if I don't have your cooperation soon.”

She lets her last word hang in the air before she stands. "Think about it. I'll be back."


	6. Chapter 6

After Trilla leaves, Cal quiets the surge of anger in his chest long enough to realise she’s left him in what appears to be a med bay. There are steel cabinets lining the black-tiled walls—filled with torture supplies, possibly—and a few empty gurneys fill the space. A bacta tank sits in the corner. 

All of it appears relatively new and unused, and within reason, too. It’s hard to imagine any of the Inquisitors ever getting patched up here. He can’t picture Trilla needing a bacta plaster, but who knows, really? They’ve fought a few tough battles. And the Ninth Sister, even with her talk on the ease of losing limbs, couldn’t have passed on treating her lost, well, limb. (Still, it’s hard for him to find any sympathy for her.)

A quick glance around tells him he’s alone. But why would Trilla leave him without supervision? It can only mean one thing: a trap. (Then again, even a youngling could’ve arrived at the same conclusion.)

No matter. Time to find a way out. 

He’s on a gurney that seems close to snapping—only solidifying the idea that the med bay is just a cosmetic addition to whatever Imperial hellscape this is. It creaks as he stands, creating a racket worlds louder than it needs to be. 

Cal takes just a step before the sound of blast doors opening reaches his ears. He ducks instinctively under the gurney, not looking to see what or who might be coming for him.

“Disturbance detected,” Comes a mechanical voice. Cal curses under his breath. He can recognise that robotic voice anywhere: it’s a KX-series security droid. He gets a brief flashback to all the wonderful, _wonderful_ encounters he’s had with them on just about every planet he’s been to, which just makes him miss BD-1 and his droid-hacking abilities all over again.

_Hope you’re doing okay, buddy._

Peeking out from under the gurney, Cal spots it standing a few feet away, its beady white eyes looking left and right. His fingers twitch towards his saber, but of course, it’s still not there. 

_Okay,_ he thinks, his mind racing. _I need a distraction._

Cal feels for the shock collar around his neck. It’s still there (of course), but it’s just a minor setback. He looks around for something to throw. There’s a medical kit a distance away. Cal’s first instinct is to draw it close with the Force, but he decides not to risk it. When the droid looks the other way he inches towards it, his heart in his mouth. His hand closes around the handle and he tugs it towards him before the droid can notice. 

Cal gets the feeling he doesn’t have much time. He digs through the kit. _Come on, come on, there must be something I can use..._ He comes up with a pair of laser scissors—it’s sort of pathetic and couldn't be further from a lightsaber, but it’ll have to do for now.

With the scissors in hand, Cal waits for an opening. When he sees one he hurls the rest of the kit to the far end of the room, sending a table of medical supplies flying. 

“Investigating disruption.”

The droid turns and begins walking toward the direction of the ruckus. Seizing his chance, Cal slips out from under the gurney. He breaks into a run. 

His lack of movement, combined with the exhaustion lent from all the visions he’d seen, results in a dangerous concoction. He’s too slow, too sluggish, and he knows it. Still, Cal makes it to the droid before it can turn around, and leaps onto its back. 

“Adversary discovered,” The droid deadpans, stumbling. 

“Adversary _definitely_ discovered,” Cal mutters, raising the pair of scissors high above his head. He brings it down onto the back of the droid’s neck. 

See, the thing about security droids is that they’re full of flaws: a good hit to any of their weak points, and they’re done for. BD taught him that, once.

The problem is, exhaustion—along with terrible scissors—shrinks Cal’s chances of getting a good hit to zero. 

The blades bounce off and shatter into pieces.

“What—” Cal starts, but the security droid is faster. One swing, and suddenly he’s on the ground, gasping for air.

_Gotta get up, gotta get up—_

The droid looms over him, its white eyes flashing with artificial malice. 

“Do not resist,” It commands. It makes a grab for him, faster than he can roll away.

 _Not again!_ He knows what’s coming: he’s been picked up and slammed down too many times for his own good. This time, though, he won’t stand for it. He lets the droid close a hand around his throat. Its metal fingers tighten around his neck with a punishing pressure. 

_I hope this works._ His vision starts to dim around the edges—it’s now or never.

Using the Force, he thrusts his hand out for something, anything. The effect is instant: the shock collar activates, pushing out a blue wave of electricity strong enough to take down a Jedi. The thing is, he’s not alone—he’s got a droid friend to take care of it. 

Sparks fly through the air. The droid seizes up. Cal can’t prepare himself before it lets go, dropping him to the ground. He rolls backwards, his back throbbing from the impact—just in time to see the droid jerking wildly, purple currents arcing through its body.

“Systems failing,” It declares feebly. Then there’s a final _CRACK_ of energy and it goes dead, collapsing to the ground with a racket loud enough to raise an undead Nightsister. 

Cal sits on the floor, breathing heavily, unable to stop the smile of disbelief that spreads across his face. _I can’t believe that worked._

Well, mostly, anyway. Some of the current redirected a little after the droid dropped him. Painful, of course, but not as bad as the interrogation chair. He shudders, remembering the blood and death and just _so much suffering_ before he can stop himself and he hears the screams, the blasters going off, lightsabers igniting...

 _Stop it,_ Cal scolds, shaking himself out of it. _Stop. It._ He can find time to process all of that when he's safe. For now, it’s time to get the hell out of here. 

He stands, ignoring the ache running down his back, and looks around for another way out. He has two options: the vent high on the ceiling, or the main entrance. Both seem annoyingly obvious. Still, Cal decides the chances of bumping into a Purge trooper in the vents is considerably lower than the hallway outside. He’ll need some kind of defence, something better than a pair of scissors. And get the collar off, if he can. 

He roots around the med bay for tools. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut: it’s the Force, telling him someone’s coming. He needs to go.

Cal finds a laser bone saw tucked away in a drawer as well as a few green, glowing canisters that he _assumes_ are health stims. He puts those away, just in case. 

He tests the bone saw out. It works wonders, its red blade slicing through the collar like it’s a piece of leather. He tears it off, grateful to breathe freely once more, and tosses the pieces to his feet.

Restoring his connection to the Force is a breath of fresh air on its own. He feels protected and overall just _good._ Healed _._ When he pulls the vent cover away it actually goes, and when he leaps he’s carried straight to the top. He grabs on to the edge and swings his body up. 

The vents are small, dark, and impossible to navigate without being squeezed on all sides. Good thing he’s not averse to small spaces—and besides, nothing can beat his cramped living quarters back on Bracca. He squeezes forward, doing a sort of half-crawling, half-swimming motion to move.

He knows the exact moment they realise he’s gone. Just as he escapes up the vent, the marching of heavy boots echoes up to his position. 

“Wait,” Comes a voice, laced with worry, just a second later. “Where’s the Jedi?”

“He can’t have gotten far,” Says another voice. “Inform the Second Sister. Sweep the area.”

Stormtroopers. Time to go. It won’t be long before they notice the open vent along with all the evidence on the floor. Cal elbows his way forward, trying to ignore the increasingly uncomfortable warmth pressing down on him on all sides.

It’s a distance before he comes across another vent opening. Peeking through the slits in the cover, he spots what appears to be an empty corridor. Normally ideal, but he’s been ambushed too many times to trust the silence. He crawls on.

The tunnels split just then. Left or right? Cal decides it doesn’t really matter. Taking the right path, the vents widen and begin a gradual ascent, which is a good sign—probably. Nevertheless, he can’t get rid of the growing pit of trepidation in his gut; it deepens with each step, impossible to ignore.

Which might be why he misses the sound of rushing water at first.

It starts off quiet. Distant. Almost peaceful, like the waterfalls on Kashyyyk. 

Then it grows louder, closer. The gentle rushing becomes a gentle roar. Cal tilts his head to look, but there’s only darkness behind him.

Then all at once, something explodes.

_No—!_

Things turn black, blacker than the darkness in the vent, as a powerful force crashes into him. The next thing he knows, it’s bright again, the artificial kind; he’s in the air, water all around him—in his mouth, up his nose, _everywhere_ —with the ground steadily rushing upwards to meet him. 

_Why is it doing that?_ Cal thinks stupidly. 

He gets the answer soon enough—and when he does, he can only brace himself before the impact hits. 

He lands hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs—and miraculously, doesn’t break every bone in his body. Cal is grateful for a split second before the pain registers. 

“Ugh...” He groans out loud, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to block it out. “That hurts.”

There’s still a block of water cascading down onto him, so he rolls until it doesn’t feel like he’s carrying a shipload of water on his back. And as much as he would love to lie there until the initial hurt goes away, he’s reminded of where he is when his Master speaks up. 

“Keep going, Cal,” Cal hears Master Tapal say. “You’re not out just yet.”

His Master’s right. He can’t stop, not until he sees his friends safe again. He struggles to stand, pressing his palms to the ground for a boost. This fall is _so_ much worse than with the droid: the room spins, and when he gets up his legs buckle, driving him back onto his knees. _I can’t go on like this._

Remembering the stims in his pocket, he pulls one out. It’s still green, still glowing, still suspicious. Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than the state he’s in, right? 

Cal stabs the needle into his arm. He knows he’s made the right choice when the room sharpens back into focus at once. The punishing ache in his body dulls somewhat and he takes a few experimental steps forward, letting out a relieved sigh when they don’t shake. Much better.

He looks around, starting with the impromptu waterfall currently raining from the ceiling. Glancing up, he sees the vent from where he’d fallen. It’s still gushing water. Where is all that water coming from? And since when have vents come equipped with flooding systems? 

Cal takes in the rest of the room, or dojo. That’s what it looks like, at least, judging by the high ceiling and almost arena-like space. It’s nothing like the Jedi temple dojo, though—not with the Empire’s symbol prominently displayed in red on the walls. Cal lets himself be bitter about that before searching for an exit. 

There’s two, one on his left and one on the right. Now, this decision is crucial: which one leads to freedom and which one goes right back to Trilla?

Among the two, the right one gives off the worse feeling (if that’s even possible for a place like this), so he follows his instincts and picks left. 

“Trust in the Force,” Cal recites under his breath. “Trust in the Force.” He leaves the ‘only’ out: he can’t make himself believe that. Cal listens for an interjection from Master Tapal, but there is only silence and the dim roar of the waterfall behind him. _Onward, then._

He makes it all the way to the exit before he’s halted by the sound of blast doors opening behind him. He spins around, calling the Force to his defence, but whoever steps through is obscured by the blanket of water pouring down, and he doesn’t dare move to look. Whoever it is, it can’t be good. Who would Trilla send after him this time? Scout troopers? Purge troopers? Trilla herself?

He's suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he's missing his lightsaber. It’s not like he can escape on the Mantis this time. But what he does have, though, is a laser bone saw. He pulls it out. While it had been his saviour earlier, it just looks laughably pathetic as he activates it now. _I have a bad feeling about this._

A figure moves behind the water. It’s taller than Trilla should be, shrouded in black. Not her, then. Cal finds that coming to this conclusion doesn’t comfort him one bit. 

The figure moves out of the way, revealing itself—and yeah, Cal definitely has a very, _very_ bad feeling about this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise how dumb laser scissors and bone saws sound, but they actually exist in legends material, in the books luke skywalker and the shadows of mindor and fate of the jedi: abyss respectively!  
> thanks for reading, let me know what you think :)


	7. Chapter 7

_It’s him._

A towering figure stands before Cal. It’s made of shadows, dark beyond the black of his mask and his clothes, the kind of darkness Master Tapal always reminded never to let frighten him. Cal, being young and naive, had agreed readily then—but when Darth Vader himself stands before you looking like Death incarnate, how could anyone _not_ be?

Just saying his name in his head doesn’t feel real. That’s because Darth Vader is supposed to be a story, an urban legend, material for the best stories exchanged in cantinas. 

And yet here Vader stands now, as real and as terrifying as all of the stories Cal has ever heard—or more, perhaps. None of the stories describe the hollow, mechanical breaths he takes, sounding more machine than man; neither do they talk about the way the Force is drawn to him, taking all that is good and hopeful and enslaving it under his feet. (Then again, Cal doesn’t know anyone who’s met the Sith Lord and walked away to tell the tale.)

 _I’m in trouble. I’m in trouble._ Cal takes a step backwards. He tries to take another one but finds he can’t: Vader has a hand stretched out, freezing him in place. “Cal Kestis,” he says. He sounds disappointed. “I was expecting better.”

Some part of Cal wants to take offence at that, but he decides it’s probably best to keep his mouth shut. Vader is _not_ Trilla: he’s much, much more dangerous.

“Nevertheless,” Vader continues. “With proper enlightenment, you could be an asset to the Inquisitorius.” A pressure begins around his throat. “This is your only chance to surrender to the might of the dark side. I suggest you choose wisely.”

“Never,” He says firmly. The Ninth Sister might have thought it inevitable, but not for him. Not for him. 

Vader releases his hold. “So be it.” He ignites his saber, the red blade cutting into the dim light of the dojo. _Is this how it ends, then?_ Cal thinks, clenching his fists. _An execution?_ No. Vader reaches behind his back and pulls out a second saber, one he recognises right away.

But why?

He gets the answer to that soon enough: Vader tosses his lightsaber to him. It soars through the air in an arc, as if enthusiastic to return to its owner. Cal knows he is, at least. He catches and ignites it, grateful to feel the cool metal of his Master’s hilt along with Cere’s in his grip once more. _Hello, old friend_. The blue plasma splits the red lighting in the room, glowing like hope, and Cal knows he hasn’t lost. 

At least, that’s what he thinks. 

Vader takes a step forward, twirling his lightsaber loosely, just studying Cal through his dark lenses. Then he’s right _there_ in front of him, lifting his crimson blade high above his head like a death sentence. Cal barely parries in time. 

“Reckless,” Master Tapal chides. “Focus, Padawan. You can’t lose here.”

 _I know, I know!_ Cal grits his teeth, bracing himself for a second strike. Vader looms over him, his blade coming down over his head. He dodges, slowing Vader for the quickest of seconds, then spots his opening. He swings, aiming for somewhere under his arm—but the Dark Lord already has his saber there somehow. Their blades crash angrily, blue against red, and for a moment Cal believes he can match him in strength.

He turns out to be dead wrong in that assumption. Vader shoves, and suddenly he’s flying, crashing back onto the wet floor. 

“You are weak,” The Dark Lord comments. “Not unskilled, but weak.” He’s closed the distance between them again, his blade swinging down, but— 

—It lands a mere inch away from his left, burning a hole in the floor instead of his head. Cal scrambles backwards, trying to ignore the sharp ache blooming down his back. He stands, making a desperate grab for one of the stims, using his free hand to counter another attack. But something is bothering him. _Did Vader just spare me?_ The idea is ridiculous—but at the very least, he’s still fighting. 

Vader’s coming at him now. Cal thrusts a hand out to slow him, but the Dark Lord just flicks his attempt away with a wave of his hand.

“It is unwise to turn the Force against me,” He warns. “The dark side is stronger than you know.”

“Not as strong as you are,” A voice urges in Cal’s ear. “Go on, show him.”

How? Cal roots through the memories of his formal Padawan training, even as they clash blades in a repetitive staccato, showering sparks everywhere. Show him _what?_ There’s nothing he knows that’s strong enough to best a Sith Lord. 

_No, don’t say that,_ he insists. _Believe it, and you’ve already lost._

Cal tries out _every_ lightsaber combination, _every_ Force ability he has. Vader counters them all with ease. In fact, it feels like he is almost playing with him, somehow.

Cal’s suspicions are confirmed when Vader comes close to ending him once more—and still, the red plasma of his blade never touches him. The insult sends a surge of anger through his veins, frightening yet more liberating than anything he’s ever felt. Cal splits his saber into two—Master Tapal’s hilt in his right hand and Cere’s in his left. He charges at Vader with renewed determination, leaping high in the air, blades parallel above his head. 

At this angle, the Dark Lord isn’t scary: he’s just another enemy. Another Trilla. For a moment, everything is crystal clear; Vader moves in slow motion somehow, or maybe Cal is just faster. He aims for his head. He knows he’ll make it. The Force is with him.

Then Vader _pushes._ Just like that, the Force turns against Cal; he goes flying, and all chances of, of— _chances of what? Attacking Vader?_ shrink to none.

Vader walks over to him slowly, one hand stretched out to hold him down. He points the tip of his lightsaber at his throat. One motion of his hand and Cal’s sabers deactivate, flying back into his grasp. 

_No!_

“It is foolish to assume you can best me,” Vader says, in a matter-of-fact way. He re-attaches Cal's saber to his hip. “Jedi far more accomplished than you have failed.” His blade inches closer, close enough to burn. Cal then finds himself unable to breathe—and no, it’s not the work of the Sith Lord: it’s _him_. His fear. It trickles into his gut, screaming _this is it! This is how it ends!_

 _Stop that,_ He thinks quickly. _Don’t let him know._ Cal forces himself to stare up into Vader’s eyes, into the darkness behind it. He is not afraid. He is _not_ afraid. 

“Interesting,” Vader muses, but he doesn’t elaborate. Just then, the doors behind him open and Trilla walks through with two Purge troopers. 

Vader deactivates his saber and steps back, releasing him. He turns away from Cal and says a few words to Trilla that he doesn’t catch. She has her mask on, but from the way she nods in acknowledgement, he knows it’s not good news. (Not for him, anyway.)

Vader leaves and Cal hates how quickly the tension leaves him. Not for long, though. Trilla strolls over to where he’s still on the floor. He can feel her disdain and amusement through her mask. 

“I told you,” She says. “It’s pointless to struggle.” As she speaks, the troopers pick him up and secure magnacuffs around his wrists. 

“Too bad I’m persistent,” He shoots back. Trilla shakes her head. “A childish response. One I’m all too familiar with, coming from you.”

Cal clenches his fists. Childish?

“I’m not a child,” He defends before he can stop himself. Trilla smiles at him. He can feel it. “Your behaviour proves otherwise.” She crosses her arms. “Now, are you going to resist?”

Cal considers her question. He wants to say ‘yes’, but then his aching _everywhere_ reminds him he isn’t in the best position to try anything right now. He glares at the ground. “No.”

“Good. Perhaps you are capable of making mature decisions, after all.” Trilla walks past him. The troopers follow, marching him towards the exit he’d been trying to take earlier.

The door opens up into a dim hallway, which they quickly march through. Then they reach another door— _just_ _how many blast doors does this place have?_ —and into another hallway.

Not just _any_ hallway, though. The transparisteel windows offer a peek of the blue expanse outside. For a second Cal thinks they’re on a planet with thick fog or something, but then it registers as a school of fish drift by.

They’re _underwater._

Trilla catches his expression. She lets out a short laugh. “I haven’t given you a proper introduction, have I?” She spreads an arm out. “This is the Fortress.”

“Love the name." He says dryly.

She turns away."Regardless of whether you like it or not, this is where you'll stay for now."

“What makes you think I’m staying?” Cal squints at the transparisteel windows. They look weak enough that a good push could do some damage. He tucks this piece of information away. 

“What makes you think you’re _not_?” She counters. “We’re surrounded by miles and miles of Imperial-controlled water, Cal. You’d be dead long before you reach the surface.”

Cal thinks about the rebreather he _may_ or may not have in his tool pocket. “Good to know.”

“Oh,” She adds lightly as they turn and walk down another hallway, “If you’re planning on using that rebreather of yours, it might be helpful to know that I had it taken away.”

Damn it. He opens his mouth to argue, but—

“Easy, Cal,” He hears a voice say. He turns to see Prauf smiling kindly at him. “You gotta pick your battles. She’s just trying to get a reaction outta ya.”

Cal fights down the sudden lump in his throat. _Yeah,_ he agrees, looking at his friend. _You’re right._

Prauf falls behind as they walk. In fact, they walk for a long time, going down snaking hallways and through blast doors. Trilla’s right: the Fortress is, well, _fortified_ , clearly designed to trap prisoners for as long as its inhabitants would allow. (Or, until the prisoners _become_ the inhabitants themselves.) _Still_ , Cal muses, silently cataloguing all he can, _there’s always a way out._

They finally stop at another set of blast doors. These ones are special: unlike the usual automatic clearance Trilla gets by being near them, she goes up to a panel by the entrance and inputs a code instead. 

The blast doors slide open with a louder hiss than normal, which makes Cal think they might not be used as frequently. Behind the doors, there’s only darkness; he can’t make anything out. Then Trilla presses something, and a dim red light comes on.

Small living quarters take shape in the dark. He spots a thin mattress, even a proper refresher in the corner. It’s almost nice. Cal raises an eyebrow. “You…weren’t kidding about the ‘staying’ part.”

“I was not,” Trilla acknowledges, nodding at the Purge troopers. They push him forward until he’s inside the room, then release his magnacuffs. He turns to face Trilla, who stands at the threshold. “What now?”

“You’ll be here until you decide to reevaluate your decisions,” She replies, stepping back. “I will return to hear your verdict.”

She turns away as Cal opens his mouth to respond. Then the blast doors grind shut, and the room is plunged into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why does vader have so many typical villain lines? i literally go through hell writing his dialogue, but maybe it's just me. anyway, hope you enjoyed this part! i know i definitely had fun writing it.


	8. Chapter 8

Cal tries to feel his way around the room, putting his hands up in front of him. His eyes strain as they scan the abyss, searching for light, but there’s nothing _._ Even deep space, as barren as it is, has stars. Not this place.

He knows this is just a part of Trilla’s continued scheme. It’s ridiculous, of course: he is _not_ afraid of the dark. He shouldn’t be, not when there’s a whole galaxy out there full of things to be wary of. 

As if in response to this, his mind wanders back to his encounter with Vader. Cal can’t help but swallow a nervous lump in his throat _._ He tries to direct his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere, but the memory of Vader’s deep, mechanical breaths fight back and then he’s back in the dojo again, taken down by his former ally, the Force. Vader stands before him, unnaturally tall, the red point of his saber at his throat again. He’s completely at the Sith Lord’s mercy. 

Cal shivers. How can he fight back against someone like that?

He knows what Master Tapal would say to that. He’d remind him to have faith in his abilities. And when he was a youngling, Master Yoda would explain to him how fear lead to the dark side. Cal doesn’t need to picture him to repeat the words now: _Fear is a path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering._

He eventually finds his way to the bed when his foot hits the metal frame. It’s silent in the room, so silent that each step sounds like a blaster going off. It’s designed this way, most likely, but the knowledge of this doesn’t make the silence any easier to stomach. He’d almost prefer to hear scrap rats. 

_You’ll be here until you decide to reevaluate your decisions,_ Trilla reminds him.

Cal clenches his fists. If she thinks he’s going to break just from silence and darkness alone, she’s got another thing coming. Besides, the longer she leaves him here, the more likely his friends and family will remain safe. Right?

 _Right?_ He waits to hear input from Master Tapal or even Prauf, but the only answer he gets is his own ragged breathing and the steady thump of his heart.

Cal tries reaching out next. It’s easy at first: a picture of the room quickly takes shape in the dark. There’s a narrow slot by the doors for air to come through, but it’s too small to be even considered a vent. The walls and floors are made up of the same durasteel material as the cell, meaning it's practically unbreakable without explosives or a few Jedi to help him. 

And that’s it. When Cal tries to reach out beyond the confines of the room, he finds that he can’t. There’s no explanation for it, either: he doesn’t even have the shock collar on anymore. He chalks it up to the general energy in the room and settles down to meditate.

— — 

He soon finds there’s only so long he can meditate. He’s human, after all, and the hunger and exhaustion chip away at his resolve bit by bit. Cal refuses to acknowledge it. This is nothing compared to the interrogation chair.

(Almost _too_ much nothing.)

— — 

  
  


It’s a few more hours— _days? No, hours, definitely—_ before a small flap he hadn’t noticed before opens by the blast doors. A sliver of light and a gloved hand comes through it, balancing a tray. But before he can get to its owner the hand lets go, dropping the tray on the floor and sending a loud, metallic _clang!_ through the room. Then it disappears, taking the light with it.

He feels his way over to the door on all fours. A bit undignified, but who’s watching? (Not Trilla, hopefully, but Cal can’t really find it in him to care anyway.) When his fingers brush the tray he pulls it close, then closes his hand around whatever they’ve brought him.

More bread. And water.

He’s halfway through the misshapen lumps before he remembers his decision not to accept any food they give.

 _Do you want to die?_ A voice demands. It sounds a lot like his. _Because that’s exactly how you die._

“Stop it,” He says aloud. It’s nice to hear something through the silence.

— — 

Cal soon learns that there’s no difference between having his eyes open and closed. He tries to get to the refresher with his eyes shut, letting the Force guide him. Even _he_ knows it's silly, but it’s better than not holding on to that connection at all. Because right now, it’s all he has.

 _What about the next time you see Vader?_ Not-Cal asks. _You won’t have anything left._

He shifts his thoughts elsewhere. Back to meditation. 

— — 

The bed is lumpy and thin and he can feel every inch of its metal frame, but he sleeps. He sleeps for an unmeasured amount of time. When Cal wakes there’s something small and bright on the floor. He’s sure his eyes are playing tricks on him at first, but then he notices it’s green, like the leftover stims from the med bay. He pulls it over to him with the Force.

He roots through the pocket he’d stashed them in and finds two more inside. Together with the one on the floor, there’s enough illumination to create a small bubble of light. He considers using one, but the light is much too welcome right now to spend it away. Besides, the pain has faded to a manageable level now. Maybe another time.

**— —**

When meditation loses its effectiveness Cal takes to picturing his friends. While they had been so clear and corporeal just hours— _days? Yeah, definitely days—_ before, they don’t take shape the same way in the dark. It’s mainly due to the darkness, but also because every time he tries, he just sees the flash of a crimson blade and hears the sound of hollow, mechanical rasping all over again. 

— — 

After a few hours, he gets bread. Some hours feel longer than he remembers them to be. Cal knows it’s designed that way to disorient him, so he counts out loud. He gets up to several thousand sometimes, but the black vacuum surrounding him takes them away faster than he can keep track. Tapping along helps until he gets tired of counting. Several cycles of this and the hand returns with another tray. There’s a steady stack building up by the door.

— — 

Cal tries to escape. He tries the slot. He tries the flap. Neither show any signs of budging even after pushing with all his strength.

 _You are weak,_ He hears Vader speak up, sending ice prickling across his skin.

“Shut up,” He says out loud. 

“Childish,” Trilla coos. He spins to face the door, fists raised, but the blast doors remain closed. There’s no one there. 

_Get it together, Cal. You can’t lose here._

Someone said that once. Who?

Who?

— —

He’s been here a long time. The thousands of numbers offer no estimate whatsoever but he can tell. His nails have grown out a little. His hair now falls past the tip of his ears. When he feels his jaw there’s a considerable amount of stubble there. Cal smirks a bit at that, imagining Greez making fun of him for it. 

“You tryin’ to copy me, kid?” He’d say, chuckling.

Once he thinks about Greez, Cal thinks about Cere. How can he not? He has...so much to say to her. Mainly apologies, though: apologies for his behaviour, for how he’d reacted upon learning the truth about Trilla; apologies for his arrogance, his ignorance, his foolishness. He never could have understood what they’d been through, a fact he understands now, and it’s important that Cere knows just how much he regrets lashing out.

Cal says it all now, out loud, in the hopes that she can hear him through the Fortress walls, miles of Imperial-controlled sea, and what feels like a galaxy away from the Mantis. 

— — 

He imagines his friends coming to save him. He pictures Cere tearing a hole through the damn blast doors with a new lightsaber—with a green blade, probably; Cal always thought a green crystal suited her—and letting light back into the room. She throws him his lightsaber and together they fight their way out, retrieving the holocron and flying off before Trilla even notices.

In another scenario, Merrin teleports in, banishing the dark with her mysterious Nightsister magick. He takes her hand and with a burst of green sparks, they’re out. Cere would tear through the Purge troopers and whoever else guarding the place. They’d grab the holocron from right under Trilla’s nose, then escape back to the Mantis, where Greez and BD-1 would be waiting. Oh, and the Fortress would be destroyed, too—blown up by explosives, for good measure. Vader and the Inquisitors wouldn’t even know what hit them. This part brings an especially wide smile to his cracked lips.

Cal replays the scene he’s created over and over. It’s what he has now if he wants to stay sane. 

Not-Cal speaks up from the silence. _Are you sure they’re coming to get you?_ He challenges. _Are you sure they haven’t forgotten?_

Cal shakes his head. His friends wouldn’t leave him here. Cere must know where he is: she’s been here before. Greez, as risk-averse as he is, would probably ( _probably_ _)_ take a chance if it meant getting him out of here. And Merrin...they might be new allies, but Cal trusts her to help him out this time.

Yet, the question stays in the back of his mind. Have they? Have they?

“I can’t believe that,” He announces to the darkness. His words get swept away. The question lingers. It makes a home in the pit of his stomach, right where the darkness can’t reach. 

— — 

It’s Day Twenty-trays-in-a-pile-at-the-door. Cal doesn’t know what that means. Shadows have started to move at the corner of his eyes, but still Cal tells himself he’s not afraid of the dark. If he breaks from this alone, he might as well surrender and put on an Inquisitor uniform already. 

Thinking about the Inquisitors is a mistake: he hears Trilla speak again, her voice clearer than any of the thoughts he’s had in a while. 

_It’ll only be a matter of time before I make you break._

For the first time, Cal sees something other than black: the colour red. Red like BD’s markings or red like a lightsaber or red like blood, blood-stained grass, or, or—

Things fade back to black for a while.

When things fall back into place Cal hears the blood rushing in his ears and the sound of ringing metal in the air. Puzzled, he takes a step forward and his foot kicks something solid. He stoops down to feel it. It’s one of the trays.

No, not a tray, he realises, as his fingers trace its edge. It’s a piece of it. He takes another step forward and finds a few more. In fact, the floor is littered with little metal pieces. _Did I do that?_ He wonders, staring down at his hands before he realises he still can’t see. 

“Only a matter of time,” Trilla reminds him in a sing-song voice. 

— — 

Cal wakes to find the trays—or what’s left of them—gone altogether. The implications that stem from this make his skin crawl. 

— — 

He tries to recite the Jedi Code. It’s been ingrained in him since he became a padawan. It’ll bring him comfort now.

“There is no emotion, there is peace.” His words are rough in his throat. “There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.”

Cal can’t help but smile bitterly at both lines. Emotion and ignorance: two rules he’s already broken. He wonders vaguely if he could’ve become a Knight, even if the Purge never happened.

“There is no passion, there is power.” He frowns. That isn’t right. Jedi don’t seek power, they neutralise it to keep the peace. 

“There is no passion, there is _serenity_ ,” He corrects. “There is no chaos, there is...order?”

No. No. Harmony. There is _harmony_. Why can’t he get it right?

Last line. “There is no death, there is the Force.”

He lets it sink in. Yeah, he’s not comforted at all.

— — 

Cal opens his eyes to find Trilla standing before him. 

He flinches—it’s jarring to see something other than absolute darkness after so long. The room is filled with that dim red light again, except this time it feels like she’d flashed a glowrod right into his eyes. He brings a hand up to shield his vision.

“What do you want?” He asks. 

“You know.” A look of irritation flashes across her expression. “Have you arrived at a decision?”

Her voice is a shard of glass after so much silence. His gut twists. “I won’t open it.”

She shakes her head, her hair falling gently into her eyes. “I have to admire your resolve, Cal. But this stubbornness will only bring you pain.”

Cal really doesn’t like that, but he stays silent, fighting the growing nausea down. 

Trilla folds her arms. “One last chance.”

Not-Cal jumps at the opportunity. _Say yes!_ He yells. _They’ll kill your parents! Cere! Greez! Merrin!_

Cal digs his nails into his palms. “No,” He gets out. “I won’t."

She sighs. “Very well. But understand this…” One movement of her hand and four Purge troopers file into the room, their electro-weapons activated. “I had intended to keep this as painless as possible for you. Whatever happens next is simply the consequence of your decisions.” 

Cal lets out a chuckle at that. After all her talk about pain making her stronger, and the Second Sister herself is hesitant about hurting him?

He’d laugh more if he weren’t so afraid. 

Trilla steps back, allowing the troopers to close in. He catches a glimpse of her taking a spot by the door, but then an electrobaton comes way too close for comfort and he’s forced to direct his attention to the troopers. Cal raises his fists. He doesn’t even have the bone saw this time. Can he take them on? He doubts it, not in the state he’s in.

But damn it if he won’t try. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with the fic so far!


	9. Chapter 9

Trilla knows what to expect when she opens the doors to Cal’s cell, but somehow the sight of him surprises her anyway. He’s curled up in the bed, poncho folded under his head like a pillow, his face peaceful and expressionless. He makes no indication he’s noticed her presence nor the red light coming on—which makes her think, not for the first time, that he’s dead. But upon closer inspection, Trilla can clearly hear the slow, deep breaths he's making. She exhales. 

The little Padawan looks smaller than ever after ten days in the dark, skinnier after his sporadic diet of bread and water. As she studies his face, it occurs to Trilla just how young he is—just like _she_ was when the Empire found her, she realises. She then acknowledges, though not grudgingly, that they have this one thing in common.

And yet, he had a Master that stood by him the whole way, didn't he? Trilla clenches her jaw, glaring down at the sleeping boy. _He had someone who cared._

As if hearing her thoughts, Cal jerks awake. Surprise flashes in his eyes before he squints and holds his hand up to block out the light. When he speaks, his voice comes out in a rasp. “What do you want?”

“You know,” Trilla answers, pinning her defences back into place. “Have you arrived at a decision?”

Cal swallows. His eyes dart away for a split second before they return to meet her, his gaze colder than ever. “I won’t open it.”

A predictable response, but she’s pleased anyway. His continued persistence just gives her another reason to get more creative with her methods. For now, Trilla anticipates calling in the Purge troopers she brought with her. Pain is simple, yet effective. 

She pretends to sigh, and it has its desired effect: a glimmer of what looks like fear shines in Cal’s eyes _._ “I have to admire your resolve, Cal.” She shakes her head. “But this stubbornness will only bring you pain.”

Cal doesn’t respond. He lowers his gaze. 

“One last chance.”

He bites his lip then, clenching both fists, and Trilla is _so_ sure he’s going to say yes after all.

“No.” 

_Excellent._ She hides her smile behind a disappointed exhale. “Very well.” She gives the signal. The troopers enter, illuminating the small room with their electro-weapons. “But understand this: I had wanted to keep this as painless as possible for you.” Trilla holds his gaze. “Whatever happens next is simply the consequence of your decisions.”

Cal lets out a bitter laugh, but she knows her words have delivered the right impact. Trilla steps back then, allowing the Purge troopers to converge on him. 

She stands by as Cal struggles to fend off the four troopers, using his fists to defend himself. His attempt is futile, but his effort is almost impressive. He fights like a cornered scazz: holding back, then springing when he can. Still, scazz are easily overpowered, and while he’d somehow gotten hold of one of the trooper’s electrobatons, he’s quickly beaten down by another two. 

_Good,_ Trilla thinks viciously as his muffled groans echo throughout the room. Someone always had to bear the cost of Cere’s mistakes; now she won’t be alone in carrying that weight. Cal would have saved himself and his friends a world of suffering had he given up—and in any case, it was his choice to side with a traitor. The Force is fair: traitors get their dues. 

The troopers have blocked her view of the Padawan now, but his cries of agony are clearer than ever. Then he mumbles something. Trilla can’t catch it at first; she leans forward to listen. And sure enough, between cries, there’s something else…

“Stop,” Cal whispers, his voice barely louder than the crackle of electrobatons. “Stop.”

Trilla smiles to herself. Hadn’t Cere said the same thing right before she doomed her to this fate? 

She suddenly becomes aware of a buzzing coming from her datapad. She checks it to see a summon from the Grand Inquisitor. “Put him in the cot once you’re done,” She calls to the most senior trooper. Trillla spares another moment to look at the beaten Padawan, a mix of contempt and karmic happiness settling in her chest. Then she turns away, letting him continue paying the price for Cere's mistakes. 

  
  


The Inquisitor’s expression is especially grave as she enters.

“Second Sister,” He greets. He’s been pacing, she can tell. “There has been a development on the whereabouts of Cal Kestis’s companions.”

Ah, she’s been wondering about that. “Yes, sir? Last I heard, they succeeded in evading the TIEs dispatched to eliminate them.”

“Ten days ago, yes,” He agrees. “But our scouts have tracked them down. Cere Junda, the Latero and the Nightsister were hiding on Dathomir, but have departed since. It is understood they are planning to infiltrate the Fortress soon.”

Trilla can’t help but scoff at that. A fallen Jedi, a stubby, four-armed Latero and a Nightsister? _Infiltrate_ the Fortress? Third Brother would probably have a joke to make if he were here. 

The Inquisitor is wearing a scornful smile. “I appreciate that you see the hilarity of the situation, Sister.” He grows serious. “However, I suspect Lord Vader would prefer not to risk losing him, not until Kestis opens the holocron.” He gives Trilla a look. “I hear he is still refusing to comply.”

Trilla wrinkles her nose. She had submitted a report just the day before, documenting the lack of success. “It is only a matter of time, Grand Inquisitor. I plan to proceed with our next phase in the operation very soon.”

“Right on time, then.” The Inquisitor activates the hologram on his table, revealing the fuzzy blue projection of a planet. “Vader has commanded that Kestis be transferred off-world.”

Trilla squints at the hologram, recognising the planet’s starry surface. “To Coruscant, sir?” 

He nods. “I understand that Kestis has family there?”

She shakes her head. “They’re dead.” She pauses. “But he doesn’t know that.”

The Grand Inquisitor smiles in approval. “Excellent. Your gift in manipulation is commendable as always, Second Sister.”

Her heart swells. “Thank you, sir.” She casts another glance at the hologram. “When do we depart for Coruscant?”

He checks his datapad. “By oh-six-hundred tomorrow. I trust you will make the appropriate arrangements?”

Trilla nods. _More than you know._

**_Ten Days Ago_ **

  
  


The rich, fatty aroma of scazz steak wafts through the air as Greez cooks, whistling merrily to himself all the while. Cere smiles at the Captain’s turned back as he tosses a few ingredients in a pan. He’s always at his happiest when cooking.

Meanwhile, Cere’s watching the scanners for Imperial activity—so not at her happiest, but somebody has to do the job. Merrin is outside, soaking in real sunlight for the first time. She deserves some time to explore. They're waiting for Cal, who’s on his way to completing the last leg of their mission. After this, they’ll be able to start the Jedi Order anew. There is hope. If not for the Empire, Cere can safely say that right here, right now, is the happiest she’s been in a while. 

Until all the scanners turn red at once, that is. 

Cere can’t make sense of all the targets lighting up the screen at first. There are…so many. They all flash in cohesion, each one screaming for her attention. But one thing is clear: they need to get out of here. Now. 

“Captain!” She shouts, whipping around in her seat. “Prepare for takeoff!”

Greez turns mid-whistle, still holding on to his wooden spoon. “Huh?”

Just then, Merrin rushes into the ship, her eyes wide. “The Empire is coming,” She says with urgency in her voice. 

Greez swears, throwing his utensils down. “We can’t have just _one_ normal day, can we?” He grumbles, hurrying to the cockpit. He hops into the chair, flipping switches in rapid succession. The ship rumbles to life. 

Cere makes a grab for her comms, slamming her thumb into the button. “Cal!” She calls. “Cal, where are you? The Empire found us! You need to get back here, now!”

No response—just static. 

“Cal? Cal!” Still nothing. Unease settles in her gut. Something’s gone wrong, she’s sure of it. Cere doesn’t need the Force to know.

She turns back to the scanners. The screen reveals six TIE fighters, one TIE Interceptor, and an Imperial transport on their way. With each passing second, their chances of escape grow smaller and smaller. 

“Whoa!” Greez exclaims. “Where’s the kid? They’re here!”

Cere looks out the cockpit windows and sure enough, the first ships have started to appear in the sky. “He’s not responding,” She says, sliding into the co-pilot’s seat even as dread starts to pool in her gut. “But we have to get off the ground before they start shooting at us. We’ll circle back and pick him up later.”

Greez frowns. “Aye aye.” He grabs on to the yoke. Cere takes the laser cannons, clenching the controls tight. They can’t lose, not after coming so far. She won’t let it happen: not if she can help it.

The ship lifts on the ground just as the Imperial ships come close enough to be seen. The siren-like screech of the TIEs fills the air—and soon, the sky is dotted with green lasers. 

“Blast!” Greez curses, reaching for the throttle. “How are we getting outta here?”

“Have some faith, Captain,” Cere says, entirely aware that she’s talking more to herself. “We’ve been through worse.”

Just then, a TIE drifts right in front of the ship, getting ready to fire—but she’s quicker. One press of the trigger and rapid series of lasers deploy, aiming for the wings. The TIE combusts in a ball of fire and smoke.

“Hah!” Greez laughs. “Nice shot.”

Cere turns to Merrin, who’s taken her seat at the comms. “Can you do something to get rid of the TIEs?”

Merrin nods, her face already screwed up in concentration. “I’m trying.”

Greez brings the ship to a higher altitude. However, the TIEs, being smaller and more agile, reach there first. They start to circle the Mantis like a flock of vultures, firing at its flank. 

“They’re blocking us in!” 

“No, they aren’t,” Merrin says coolly. Mist dances around her fingers and her eyes flash green. She starts to chant. “ _Waytha ara quetha way. Waytha ara quetha way..._ ”

A fierce wind picks up outside as if it had simply been waiting to be commanded all this while. Above them, dark storm clouds start to manifest, quickly blocking out the sun. 

Greez’s eyes widen. “Whaa—?”

Merrin thrusts a hand out, magick swirling all around her. “ _Waytha ara quetha way. Waytha ara quetha way!_ ”

Green-tinted gusts churn the air. A windstorm forms. The wind is vicious now—but only to their enemies. The TIEs get swatted out of formation like flies, leaving an opening for the Mantis. “Hang on!” Greez shouts, forcing the throttle forward. The ship surges ahead, sending them all backwards in their seats. He spins the ship around, allowing Cere to take out another two TIEs. 

But they’re not close to winning this yet. The scanners have started up again; Cere checks it only to see the screen lighting up like fireworks. 

“They’re still coming.” She frowns, glancing up at the sky. “Greez, turn the ship around. We need to clear them before the second wave gets here.” 

“Gotcha.”

“I don’t know how long I can make the storm last,” Merrin says then in a strained voice. As she speaks, the remaining TIEs start to fight back against the wind, falling back into formation. Cere presses down on the trigger, sending a barrage of laser fire at them. In the distance, she sees the lone Interceptor dive towards the ground in preparation to land. 

_Trilla!_ Cere realises, and for a second she can’t do anything but stare. The distraction has dire consequences: the ship is suddenly rocked by laser bolts, rattling them in their seats. She curses. _Not now!_ She blinks herself out of it, firing another series of lasers, making the TIEs scatter—but the damage is already done. An alarm starts blaring from the controls. 

“Cere, I don’t think the Mantis can take any more hits!” Greez brings the ship high above the clouds. “We need to get outta here!”

She reaches for her comms again. “Cal! Come in!” No response. She tosses it aside, already fearing the worst. “Damn it!” 

Greez turns to look at her, his face pale. “Cere, I…”

Cere wants to ignore Greez, tell him to keep evading the Imperial ships, then they'll get back to the ground and look for Cal and BD-1. She’ll face Trilla herself if she has to, but she will _not_ let the same fate befall him. She can't let Cal down this time.

But the TIEs are closing in again, slowly cutting off their escape, and she is forced to deal with the excruciating truth: if they stay, they just might die here. They will never be able to rebuild the Order—and who knows what would happen then? 

“We need to go,” Cere agrees, the words hollow in her chest. “We’ll come back for Cal.” A part of her wants to hear an objection from Merrin or Greez, but there’s only silence save for the distant blaring of alarms. Greez clears his throat. He reaches up for the throttle, and the Mantis rises higher and higher. This high, sky is dark and starry and the Vault is long swallowed up by the storm clouds. However, the TIEs still give chase, and soon the air is swarming with them.

“Just need to evade them…” Greez mutters to himself. The ship does a few loops as lasers continue to streak by the windows, barely missing them each time. 

“I’ll scramble their sensors,” Cere says numbly. “It’ll prevent them from tracking us.”

“And I will protect the ship,” Merrin adds.

The three of them work in silence, losing the TIEs one by one. A few minutes and a few close calls later, they’re in hyperspace. As the blue vortex surrounds them, there’s an air of relief—then the feeling of failure returns. Merrin shuffles out of the cockpit, her shoulders slumped. Cere watches her go, wishing she could console the Nightsister somehow, but they both know there’s nothing that can be said for now. Even Greez is quiet. The blue whirlpool of hyperspace, usually calming, does nothing to dull the sharp ache in her chest.

But mainly, her mind is clouded with thoughts of Cal. They had been so close to scoring one victory against the Empire. _What happened?_ To make matters worse, she knows precisely what Trilla will do once she finds him—and as much as Cere would like to believe that Cal can fight her off, the Imperial troops won’t stop hunting him down. And there's no means of escape for him, not now, not after their escape.

 _It’s my fault._ Cere buries her head in her hands. _All my fault._

“Hey, Cere?” Greez speaks up suddenly. Cere looks up to see him watching her, his black eyes filled with concern. “I know what you’re thinking, and…can I say something?”

Cere forces her face into a neutral expression, blinking fast. “Of course.”

Greez sets the Mantis on auto-pilot, then hops off the chair to join her. “Look, I know you’re blaming yourself for what happened to the kid, but there’s nothing you could’ve done.”

She nods slowly. It’s the truth, yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

“Anyway, I heard you two talking right before the Jedi planet. You said that, that…” Greez scratches the back of his neck. “Well, you said that all that stuff, our mistakes, are in the past now. And that we gotta make a choice to move on, focus on the next important thing, ya know?” He lets out an awkward chuckle. “Just thought I’d remind you.”

 _He’s right,_ she realises. It’s not over yet. In fact, it’s _far_ from over.

“You...have a point,” She says, forcing a smile. “Thank you, Greez.”

She stands, the scraps of a plan already taking shape in her mind. They will need a bit of time to prepare, along with a place to hide out temporarily, but Greez is absolutely right. Time to focus on the next task: working on getting Cal back.

“Captain,” She says. “Set a course for Dathomir, please.”

Greez raises his eyebrows. “Dathomir?” He repeats, tensing up. “You wanna go back to _Dathomir?_ ”

“Cere's judgement is sound,” Merrin says. She’s poked her head back in. “The Empire has no power there. Besides, Dathomir is my home: the Nightbrothers will no longer show any hostility to you.” She purses her lips. “And…perhaps it is time I put my sisters to rest.”

Cere looks back at Greez, unable to hide her amusement. He catches her expression and throws his hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright,” He sighs, getting back onto his seat, “Dathomir it is.”

“Thank you, Greez.”

_Hang on, Cal. We’re coming to get you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like trilla, i sometimes forget how young cal is: i mean, we’re the same age ?? it’s not going to stop me from making his life difficult, though.  
> anyway, it looks like cal might be getting some help soon, so all is not lost—or is it?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, just a quick note before the next part:  
> this fic isn’t about cal/trilla! it’s in the tags as cal & trilla for that reason.  
> also, additional tags have been added!

He has to be dead. He has to. Either that, or he’s caught in a place like the World Between Worlds. He'd read about it once in a book on the unresolved mysteries of the Force: it's a dimension separate from theirs, only accessible through certain places and conditions. And after all he's been through? Yeah, it’s a possibility—except the World he’s in right now is just filled with fire and electrobatons and more blasted red light. 

_Is this Hell?_ Cal wonders, thinking of the Corellian myth.

Whichever it is, the only thing that feels real now is the searing pain from wherever the Purge troopers had hit him—which, coincidentally, is _everywhere_. But it hurts especially under his ribs, right where a trooper kicked him once another knocked him to the ground.

And that's all he remembers from the fight, save for purple-red flashes of light and an obstructed view of Trilla’s turned back. He supposes they might have knocked him unconscious soon after.

In any case, he’s back on the bed, alone again, much too pained to move. Hell, he’s barely keeping from groaning every time he _breathes_ ; he’s even letting out a soft, hollow wheeze with each one. _Something’s busted,_ He thinks distantly. 

_Come on, Cal._ Not-Cal is back, and he sounds angry. _You can’t just lie here. What is wrong with you?_

Cal shuts his eyes, letting the groan pass his lips. “Go away,” He mumbles. 

“Is that the right way to speak to your Master, Padawan?” A deep voice answers.

His eyes snap open. His vision is dim, foggy, but the silhouette of Master Tapal standing before him is undeniable. 

“M-master.” Cal’s voice comes out funny, something between a croak and a gasp. “I…” He doesn’t know what to say: he hasn’t seen him in what has felt like weeks _._ Some part of him is aware that he passed a good five years without seeing him at all, but he has really grown accustomed to heeding his advice as of late. 

Master Tapal moves closer and sits by the foot of the bed. He’s in his Jedi robes, something Cal hasn’t seen in a long time. The familiarity creates a new ache in his chest and his vision turns blurrier, somehow. 

“I’m sorry, Master,” Cal tries to speak past the lump in his throat. “I thought, I thought I could stay strong.” He expects to see disappointment in his Master’s eyes, but there’s only profound sadness and what looks like the white light of a Venator hallway, or an escape pod—but it could just be his imagination. 

“You _are_ strong, Cal.” His Master reaches out a hand to place on his shoulder. “Stronger than anyone in the same situation would be.”

Master Tapal is not real. He knows. But Cal imagines his warmth pressing against his shoulder and he feels safe even if it’s just for now. “I don’t _feel_ strong,” He admits. (He’s alone, so he can say it.) “Trilla, she…they…” He trails off. 

_I don’t think I can keep from breaking,_ Cal thinks quickly and is immediately horrified by the thought. Somewhere in the back of his mind, someone laughs. 

“No one said you had to break, Cal.”

“Trilla threatened to kill my parents,” Cal bursts out. It’s hard to deny the tears now. “I can’t let them die for me. They don’t even _know_ me.”

“Listen to me, apprentice,” His Master says patiently. “ _You don’t need to break_.” He stands then, placing his arms behind his back. He starts up a leisurely pace in the small room. “Remember what I said about the Force? There will be times when _emotion_ ”—he gives Cal a stern look—“Pain or exhaustion trick you. You will feel cut off. Isolated.”

Cal swallows, saying nothing. 

“This is an illusion,” He continues. “No matter what happens, the Force will always be there to lend a hand. You don’t need to break,” His Master repeats. “You can simply bend for now.”

It’s funny: Master Tapal was never this vague with instructions when he was alive. That’s when Cal is forced to accept that it’s really not him he’s speaking to. Master Tapal would have better advice. (Then again, perhaps it’s about time he stops waiting for advice.) 

Still, the input has its merits. “Bend?” Cal echoes. “I'm being forced to choose between them or the children on that list. I don't see how...”

Master Tapal shakes his head. “If you don’t bend, he will break you.”

 _He?_ But then Cal understands who his Master is talking about. Just like that, a chill washes over him, trickling into his skin. He draws his arms closer around him. 

“Just long enough for you to retrieve the holocron and escape,” Master Tapal continues. He gives him a smile that’s just warm enough to stop him from shivering. “Remember: you are strong, Cal. You will get through this.”

Those final words echo in the room then, long after Master Tapal leaves. Cal relishes in the feel of them in his mouth, in the air he breathes. And then he understands what he needs to do.

He sleeps afterwards, letting the soft red light cradle him into oblivion. He’s only disturbed when the blast doors open with a deafening screech, startling him awake.

Trilla stands at the entrance, her silhouette dark and terrible in the light. Upon seeing her, all rational thought goes out the door; Cal finds himself cringing away as she steps into the light, just where his Master had been not too long ago. He _knows_ he should stay strong, _bend not break_ and all that—but Force, he’s not ready for another round of torture. Not so soon.

“Please don’t,” He blurts before he can stop himself. 

Trilla quirks an eyebrow, tilting her head ever so slightly. Cal gets the awful feeling she’s hiding a smile. “Don’t _what_ , Cal?”

He doesn’t respond, cursing himself silently. Trilla pulls out something from behind her back _—Another electrobaton? The holocron?_

No, it’s just a medpac. She comes closer, opening the kit to reveal a few bacta patches and what looks like more stims, among other first-aid tools. 

“Do you have enough strength to sit up?” She asks gently. 

Cal blinks at her. Something is not right here. He glances at her hip, looking for her lightsaber, but it’s not there: she must know he isn’t strong enough to be much of a threat now. Somehow, the thought annoys him. 

“Cal?” She prompts. 

He gets out of his thoughts. “Why?”

“I’m going to treat your wounds, of course.” She lifts the medpac as if to say, _what else?_

 _What?_ He can’t be sure he heard that right; this is the same person who’s done nothing but cause endless harm to him and everyone he knows. Trilla is no friend of his, especially not now. 

“Why?” He asks again.

Trilla disregards the question. “I’m not going to hurt you,” She assures, resting her hand on his. He flinches and pulls back, hardly registering the wave of pain that comes with the movement. 

“Then you shouldn’t have in the first place,” He snaps. 

“I didn’t hurt you, Cal. _You_ did.” She takes out a bottle of spray bandage. “Do you remember what I told you when you first arrived?”

“No,” He replies, unease sinking into his gut.

“Things can be as easy or as painful as you want it to be,” Trilla says calmly. “And everything that brings you harm is a lesson.” 

Cal suspects he knows the answer, but he asks anyway: “Lessons?”

Trilla takes his hand with gentle pressure. Cal forces himself to keep still, fighting the desire to strike, but she simply gives it a quick spray and lets go. The pain eases into a dull throb. 

“Yes, lessons,” She agrees, taking out a bacta patch next, “Lessons that will, in time, teach you to listen to me.”

“I’d rather not,” Cal begins, but is stopped by a look that far too strongly reminds him of Master Tapal’s. 

“Your pride blinds you,” She comments, looking disappointed. “But I need you to understand something, Cal.” She presses the bacta patch over his elbow. Cal sucks in a painful breath.

“The only person keeping Lord Vader from taking what he wants…” She meets his gaze. “Is me.” 

He winces. He knows she’s just trying to get a reaction out of him, but he can’t deny that the thought of facing Vader again doesn’t frighten him to some degree. 

_Bend, don’t break,_ He repeats to himself. _Bend, don’t break._

“Lord Vader is much less patient than I am,” She continues. “He will not hesitate to destroy the petty resilience that lives within you”—She taps a finger against his chest—“and rebuild whatever is left in the Empire’s image.” As she speaks, an image of Vader’s lightsaber and the dark aura of his presence begins creeping its way back into his mind. He suppresses a shiver.

Trilla is watching him. “You don’t want that, do you?” She asks softly. 

He swallows a bitter response. “...No.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.” She sounds pleased. She lets go of his elbow. “If you continue to listen to me, he will not interfere. That is my promise to you.”

Cal hates the way she phrases it: like he’s supposed to be a dog, or a youngling, or _something_. Trilla doesn’t _say_ it, but he hears her voice in his mind anyway. _Childish._

Trilla tries to get him to sit up after that. When he tries, they hear something go _snap!_ and suddenly Cal is doubled over in agony, crying out as his ribs are set on fire. A moment later, he feels the sharp point of a stim needle enter his side and immediately the blaze quells to a small flame.

When he can bear the pain well enough Cal forces his eyes open to see Trilla studying him. “Hmm,” She muses but doesn’t say any more. (Apparently, she and Vader have that in common.)

He doesn’t want to receive help, not from her, but the burn is still overwhelming enough that his vision phases in and out of the dark. “Can I…” He asks, hesitating; it’s definitely strange. “Can I have another stim?”

“No,” She says shortly, shutting the medpac. “If I heal you, there would’ve been no point in this lesson, would there?”

 _Blast._ As much as it works against him, he can’t argue with that logic. 

Just then, the doors open and a pair of stormtroopers step through. One of them is pushing a hoverchair.

“Are we going somewhere?” He asks, looking at the chair. It’s a modern make, a lot more ergonomic in appearance than some models he used to find aboard old starships. 

“How perceptive of you,” Trilla praises. She nods at the trooper. He pushes it close while the other comes to his left and starts to reach for his arm.

“Hey—” Cal starts, tensing up, but is stopped by a gentle pressure against his right shoulder. He turns to see Trilla giving him a warning look. 

“Cooperate,” She reminds. Cal swallows, looking back down. Fine. He’ll play along. For now.

Together, Trilla and the trooper lift him to his feet. Cal has to bite his lip to keep from screaming as the fire starts up again, and he’s sure he loses consciousness from the sheer pain of it because when he opens his eyes, he’s already on the chair. He looks down to see his hands bound to the armrests. A new shock collar is locked around his neck. _Blast_. 

He twists his wrists, annoyed. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Trilla says airily. She’s walking ahead while a trooper pushes him from behind. 

They go through the same hallways as before, except Cal takes everything in differently. It’s only after weeks—weeks? He needs to find out for sure—of pitch-black darkness that he really _sees_ everything now, and not only through the eyes of the Force.

He appreciates every minor detail: the iridescent colours of the fish that swim by outside; the whispers of daylight penetrating through the deep blue water; the occasional flickering of the cold white illumirods above them. Cal smiles to himself, forgetting just for a moment that he’s still in the hands of the Empire. For now, there is light and there is _life_.

That daydream leaves him abruptly when they push him to a turbolift. They start to ascend. _We’re going to the surface,_ he realises. That means no more miles and miles of water. That means a greater chance of getting out of here. Cal clenches his fists, getting ready to run—broken rib be damned.

This idea evaporates the second the turbolift doors open. 

They’re in a hangar. His gaze is instantly drawn to the tri-winged _Lambda-class_ shuttle in the centre, surrounded by both technicians and droids. Around the shuttle sits several TIE Fighters, including a TIE Interceptor Cal recognises as Trilla’s. As an added bonus, there are stormtroopers and Purge troopers everywhere. _Well, there goes that idea._

Trilla is watching his expression. Her lips are quirked upwards in a smile. “Not what you expected?” 

“Where are we…” Cal starts to ask, but then he understands. Trilla’s words come back to him, as clear as if she’d just spoken them:— 

_Perhaps one of these days I should pay your dear mother a visit._

What feels like a block of ice drops right into his gut. Cal struggles against the magnacuffs, momentarily forgetting his pain. “No—you can't—" He splutters as Trilla turns away. This sends a renewed wave of anger through his veins.

"Listen to me! You can't go to Coruscant!"

At his outburst, the stormtroopers raise their blasters at his head. She continues to observe him coolly. “You don't make the decisions around here, Cal. I do.” 

“But you said—!” Cal falters, not entirely sure what it is she’d said. “You said, you said if I _listened…_ ” He’s aware of how he sounds. But he doesn’t exactly care right now. 

“I said you wouldn’t have to face Vader if you cooperated with me.” She makes a gesture at a pair of technicians, who start to move towards the shuttle. “I never said anything about the holocron.”

She’s right—but _Force,_ he should’ve known. Her kindness, however minimal, had only ever been another one of her weapons against him. He should've known by now.

But if that’s the case, then why does he feel cheated anyway?

 _That’s because you’re starting to fall for it,_ Not-Cal hisses. _Stupid Padawan._ Cal ignores him, glaring at her turned back. Trilla walks ahead, quickly disappearing into the ship with two Purge troopers. The stormtrooper pushing his hoverchair follows, guiding him towards the shuttle. As they approach, the lights turn on and the steady whine of the engine warming up fills the air. 

The trooper pushes him up the ramp, into a hallway with passenger seats. Cal looks around. The interior is dark, sterile and minimal, hardly a luxury cruiser. He’s then brutally reminded of the Mantis.

He misses the ship more than he’d realised—and that includes everything, even the bogling in the vents and the potolli-weave fabric sofas. He actually misses Greez’s cooking. _Did he eventually make that scazz steak?_ Cal wonders. How is the terrarium doing? Are his friends even alive? _No. You can't think like that. Are they doing okay?_

His heart twists in yearning then, and Cal forces himself to think about something else. He must be running out of options, because his mind immediately jumps back to his family.

 _It’s settled,_ he decides. The skeleton of a plan begins to take shape in his mind. He needs to escape, get away from the Empire, find a way to reach them on Coruscant before they do. And if he fails this time…

He doesn’t want to think about that, either. 

“Cal.” Someone is calling his name now. He looks up, somehow expecting to see Master Tapal, but it’s only Trilla. She has her helmet kept under one arm, her lightsaber back by her hip. He fights back the urge to push her back. 

“Cal, are you alright?”

There she goes again, giving him the false kindness he doesn’t need. He glares up at her. “I’m fine.”

She purses her lips, eyebrows drawing together in sympathy. “You’re thinking about your family.” Not a question, but a statement. He stays quiet, and she carries on. “You _are_ aware that you have the power to stop this, aren’t you?” Trilla reaches behind her and—of course. It’s the holocron. “You just have to do this one simple thing, and they will be safe. They _all_ will be.”

He doesn’t miss the emphasis. “I won’t let you take the children,” He snaps. “Aren’t you tired of asking?”

Trilla sits down in one of the passenger chairs opposite him, setting her helmet and the holocron down. “You insist on protecting these anonymous children,” She holds his gaze. “And yet you would let harm come to your own family?” When he doesn’t reply, she shakes her head. “I expected better from you, Cal. You are not the noble Padawan you pretend to be.”

The words are a punch to the gut. Cal tries not to let it show. _Bend, not break. Bend, not break. Bend, not break._

“Oh, Cal.” Trilla is suddenly smiling. "It's alright." Before he can dodge, she reaches a hand out to cup the side of his face. Her thumb traces the blaster scar just beneath his ear, and he tries to avoid a shiver—from disgust or fear, he can’t tell. It happens anyway and he hates himself for it.

Her smile grows wider, just a fraction. Her thumb extends to reach below his eye; she wipes away the trail of tears there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay okay i honestly thought i’d be able to get to coruscant in this chapter, but there’s been a change of plans! we’ll get there soon, i promise. it might take longer than usual though, i have a bunch of tests this week (because vet tech school is actually my personal hell).  
> as usual, thanks for reading <3


	11. Chapter 11

By the time Trilla takes her hand away, Cal is aware of two things. 

One: he needs to dodge faster next time.

Two: he can’t afford to give Trilla that kind of ammunition again.

Another traitorous tear escapes as Trilla turns away, descending the entry ramp back to the hangar. He can’t even wipe it off: his hands are still glued to the hoverchair. But then both tears start to dry in the cold air and Cal decides he’s had enough.

 _Come on,_ He scolds. _Pull yourself together._

He starts to count. By ten, he still feels the burn of Trilla’s leather-gloved touch on his cheek, so he tries another ten. The tears vanish. Thirty. The tension eases in his chest. Forty. He can’t hear her words anymore. Fifty. The sensation of Trilla’s hand disappears altogether. _You're okay. You're okay._

He gets to a hundred before he’s interrupted the sound of heavy footfalls in the distance. He blinks, scanning the dark shuttle. From the entry ramp, a pair of feet make an appearance. He watches the pair of feet, one red and metallic, the other orange-brown and organic, come closer. It grows into a person.

A female Dowutin, to be specific. 

The Ninth Sister stands in front of him. “Missed me, Padawan?” She says, her lips twisting into a sneer.

“You!” Out of curiosity, Cal can’t help but immediately direct his gaze to her right hand. He finds it’s been replaced by a red cybernetic part, matching her leg. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” The Ninth Sister steps closer, her sneer turning into a snarl. She fists his jacket in her cybernetic hand, yanking him close enough that he can see each and every one of her scars in detail. “Betcha thought you got rid of me on Kashyyyk, huh? Well, I lived”—She jabs a claw at his chest—“And now you’re just one of Second Sister’s little keepsakes.” She smiles, all pointed teeth. “Though, if it were up to me…” Her claw digs into his flesh, making him gasp out in pain. “I’d make you pay. And more.”

“Too bad it’s not,” Cal says, entirely aware that it isn’t the cleverest response—but hey, he’s in a lot of post-rib-break pain. He gets some credit for trying.

The Ninth Sister scowls. “Yeah, it’s unfortunate. But we’ll be seeing a lot of each other on Coruscant; you’ll have that to look forward to.” 

At the mention of his homeworld, Cal feels his heart sink again. That’s right: they’re going to Coruscant, where he just might witness his family die at the hands of the Empire. _Don’t say that,_ he insists. _You’ll find them._

Trilla returns just then, and the Ninth Sister lets go of him. Behind her are a squad of Purge troopers, along with a grey-skinned Kage in an Inquisitor uniform. He’s talking loudly, irritation laced with his voice.

“...no reason why the Grand Inquisitor wanted _me_ to _—_ ” He cuts himself off, his gaze landing on Cal. His face splits into a grin. “Oh. So that’s the Jedi?” 

Cal feels something tick inside him.

“The Padawan, yes,” Trilla corrects—which only makes it worse. 

“Ah.” He leans closer, analysing him with gold eyes. “It's nice to finally meet you,” He says. 

Cal keeps silent. The Inquisitor turns back to face Trilla. “You said he was more talkative.”

“I said nothing of the sort, Third Brother,” She says, shaking her head. “It was your decision to interpret the reports that way. The reports, might I add, that were meant for the Grand Inquisitor.”

 _Reports?_ Third Brother shrugs. “Then you shouldn't have left your datapad on.”

Cal hides a smirk. Whoever this Third Brother guy is, he’s clearly a source of irritation for the normally calm and collected Trilla. The amusement fades, though, when the Third Brother takes a seat near him, leaning back with a sigh. With the addition of another Inquisitor, it now makes for a grand total of three Inquisitors, along with a squad of Purge troopers, that he’ll have to evade later. Cal doesn’t like those odds.

Trilla comes over to him, a contemplative expression on her face. “If I let you out of the chair, will you behave?”

He frowns. She’s testing him, giving him more lessons. But then he remembers that this is only temporary: he’ll be out of this mess soon. He swallows his pride. “I won’t try to hit you, if that’s what you mean.”

Trilla gives him a patronising smile. “How very wise of you.”

Cal glances at the Purge troopers, thinking of their electrobatons, and privately agrees with her. Trilla pulls out something that looks like a key fob. One tap, and the magnacuffs release. He stands shakily, massaging his wrists, and wobbles into one of the seats. 

Three officers dressed in green uniforms enter last. One gives Cal a dirty look before turning to Trilla. “We are cleared for takeoff, Second Sister.” 

“Good. We’ll depart right away.” 

The Imperial officers turn to the flight deck of the ship and she starts to follow. At the last moment, she turns back, meeting Cal’s gaze. Her eyes convey one message: _cooperate._

He looks away. Yeah, of course; it’s not like he wants to get shocked again or risk death in an Imperial shuttle, anyway. 

The flight deck doors close behind Trilla, leaving Ninth Sister, Third Brother, the Purge troopers and Cal to sit in the passenger deck, the air thick with silence. He shifts uncomfortably. 

Third Brother turns to him. “So, Padawan,” He says. “How did you manage to survive this long? I mean, five years?” He lets out a low whistle. “That’s impressive.”

Cal blinks. Really? This Inquisitor wants to talk to him? He glances at the Ninth Sister, but she’s looking elsewhere. 

“I was on Bracca,” He says finally.

“Ah, the junkyard planet,” Third Brother says, nodding like he said something clever. “I was on Nar Shaddaa, myself. They found me after the whole Order 66 fiasco.”

That sinking feeling returns. “You were a Jedi?”

“Yeah.” Third Brother yawns, stretches. “I mean, we were all Jedi once. Weren’t we, Masana?”

Cal has no idea who he’s talking to until the Ninth Sister lets out a growl from the other side of the passenger deck. “Don’t call me that.”

The corner of Third Brother’s lips twitch upwards in a smile, and Cal almost follows. The Inquisitor catches the movement, though, and reaches over to sock him lightly in the shoulder.

“Loosen up a little, Padawan,” He says. “I don’t bite.” He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But I can’t speak for Ninth Sister.”

Cal glances back at her. She’s pointedly looking elsewhere this time. He risks an amused smile. 

“There we go.” Third Brother grins at him. “So, what’s your name, anyway? Didn’t catch that part in the reports.”

“I’m...uh, Cal.”

He nods at him in greeting. “Nice to meet you, Cal.”

He notices the Third Brother doesn’t introduce himself in return. It's probably for the best, anyway: he’s not here to make friends. It’s bizarre enough that they’re talking at all. (It’s nice, though, not having someone bring up the Force-sensitive children or the holocron for once.)

The sound of the engine grows louder just then, reminding him of what’s ahead. It must show on his face because Third Brother glances over. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s _wrong?_ ” He repeats, incredulous. 

Third Brother snaps his fingers. “Ah. That’s right. You miss your friends.”

That’s part of it, of course, but Cal won’t let him know. They’re not remotely close to friends, let alone confidants. If it came to it, Third Brother would strike him down without a second thought.

When Cal doesn’t reply, Third Brother continues. “And let me guess. Second Sister wants you to give up what’s inside the holocron. I hear she’s very creative with her methods.”

He says nothing, rubbing at his sore wrists.

“No? One more then. You’re in pain?” As if on cue, his chest starts to sting. Third Brother pauses. “Look, I can’t do everything, but I can at least help with that. Here.”

Cal looks over to see a glowing stim in his hand. 

“Third Brother!” Ninth Sister snaps.

“What?” He asks defensively. “Second Sister never said I couldn’t, did she?”

The stim looks like a shining beacon of hope, but Cal knows better than to accept: he’d rather deal with the pain than owe an Inquisitor anything. Even if they all used to be Jedi. _Especially_ because they all used to be Jedi.

“I’m fine,” He says, looking away. 

Third Brother shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He pockets the stim.

They fall back into uncomfortable silence after that. The roar of the engine grows, followed by another sinking feeling in his gut, this time because the shuttle lifts off the ground. The feeling worsens, followed by a sharp tug and the muffled sound of a small explosion—and then they’re in hyperspace.

The uncomfortable silence drags on. It drags on for a long time. Third Brother is doing something with a datapad. Ninth Sister has her own datapad, too. And the Purge troopers are just standing and sitting around, their gaze focused on Cal. Cal decides to peek out from the small viewport in the corner, watching the waves of hyperspace rush by. 

After what feels like a millennium, the doors of the flight deck open and Trilla steps through. Third Brother stands and takes her place inside wordlessly.

She assumes a seat next to him. Cal looks straight ahead, determined not to acknowledge her presence. But then she passes him something. He looks down and sees a datapad with what looks like a report on display.

“Read it,” She instructs.

Cal takes the datapad and glances at the title:

_PROJECT HARVESTER_

He frowns. He looks up. “What’s…?”

She nods at the screen. “Read it.”

He looks back at the datapad and starts to scan the page. He catches words like ‘Force-sensitive children’, ‘training’ and ‘the Emperor’. Then he reaches the end of the introduction, and the whole picture comes together.

Oh, this is much, _much_ worse than he’d originally thought. 

“The Emperor wants to raise the children as Imperial agents?”

“Not until they are old enough to understand,” Trilla corrects. “Until that time comes, the Emperor simply wishes to provide them with a better life.” Her voice takes on an edge. “In case you neglected to realise, Cal, the Clone Wars haven’t been kind to the galaxy. If you live beyond the Core, you live in poverty.”

Of _course_ he’s aware: he had spent five years on Bracca, one of the poorest, most neglected planets in the Mid Rim. And yet, he knows there are worlds that are worse off out there. Cal catches himself before he can begin to agree. “Do you think that by taking them away from their families and raising them for war, you’re giving them a better life?” He laughs. “If you’re trying to convince me that any of this is good, you can stop now.”

“Now that is where you have been deluded,” She says, crossing her arms. “How is it any different from how the Jedi Order used to operate?”

Cal swallows. “That’s—they’re not the same."

“Oh, but they are.” Trilla takes the datapad back. “Taking children from their parents, raising them for nothing but the next fight…” Her tone grows increasingly agitated. “How are they not?” 

She stands, towering over him. “Look at us.” She gestures at him, then the Ninth Sister. “We were all children once, weren’t we? _We_ were taken from our families.”

“The Jedi…” Cal falters. “The Order trained us for peace. To stop wars, not start them.” But the words sound weak, even to him. 

Trilla laughs and shakes her head. “Cal, listen to yourself. You sound just like a propaganda droid.”

He has nothing to say to that: in some ways, she’s right about him. 

“The Jedi are not coming back, Cal,” She continues with a sigh. “It’s time you accepted that. The Empire will build a new Order—one that will ensure no children have to grow up hungry or afraid.”

He must be delusional like Trilla says, because for a moment Cal wants to believe her. He wants to believe that there truly can be a galaxy where there are no stories like his or Trilla’s or any of the Inquisitor’s, for that matter. But that’s not how the galaxy works. 

“You don’t believe me,” Trilla observes. She sits down, leaning in. “But this is my promise to you, Cal.” Her expression softens. “If you help us accomplish our goal, the Emperor will allow you to remain and guide these Force-sensitive children alongside us. You will see for yourself, then, what we're trying to achieve.”

Cal meets her gaze. If he understands her correctly, Trilla is offering him an invitation to join them. Now _that_ is entirely ridiculous, and Cal is prepared to laugh in her face—but then he thinks about the Force-sensitive children.

He and Cere had wanted to save the children too, didn’t they? He remembers his dreams of rebuilding the Jedi Order, storming Coruscant one day with hope and a future in their hands.

Just saying the words in his head makes them sound artificial, somehow.

A beeping sound starts up from the flight deck, jerking him out of his misery. 

“We are nearing our destination,” Trilla says. “Once we land, I will not hesitate to give the order to seek out your family. So, I ask you once again.” She offers out the holocron. It glows in her hand, unaware of the responsibility it holds. “Will you make the right decision this time?”

Cal looks at the holocron. “I…” Someone makes a movement behind her then, making him glance up. It’s Master Tapal. Pain lines his face, and Cal sees why: his front, stained deep red, is dotted with blaster holes. His Master mouths something. 

_Trust only in the Force._

Then all at once, something explodes.

The ship rocks violently to one side. Trilla frowns, looking at him suspiciously, before she drops her hand and turns away. She dashes into the flight deck just as alarms start blaring throughout the shuttle. Through the windscreen, Cal spots a glimpse of bright blue sky. He stares, confused. When did they arrive on Coruscant?

“Captain!” Trilla commands. “Give me an update. What happened?”

The Imperial officer is sitting in the pilot seat, hands on the controls. “We’re being ambushed by ground forces!” He hears him shout. 

Trilla swears under her breath. She turns back to look at Cal, her expression livid. But Cal isn’t fazed anymore; he just smiles in return. Trilla’s lips set into a thin line and her head snaps back to look out the windscreen. What she sees must irritate her, because she storms out of the flight deck, sliding her helmet over her head. Ninth Sister stands quickly, a hand on her lightsaber. 

“What is it, Second Sister?”

“Separatist holdouts,” Trilla hisses. “An organised attack; they knew we were coming.”

 _Separatists?_ Cal wants to laugh again. Silently, he thanks the Force—an incident like this can’t be attributed to mere coincidence. From the corner, Master Tapal smiles at him, then his form fades. 

“Then let's make them regret it,” Ninth Sister growls.

Third Brother comes out of the flight deck, his expression grave. “We’re close to the ground,” He says. “But Captain Oden tells me we’re at risk of getting shot down first—there’s too many of them.” 

“Tell the Captain to clear as many of them as possible,” Trilla instructs. “Ninth Sister, Third Brother, we will handle the rest.” She moves to the closed entry ramp, hitting a control panel; the ramp beeps and starts to lower, sending a gust of pressured air rushing in. Cal leans back. 

Trilla glances at a Purge trooper. “You know your orders.”

He nods. “Yes, Second Sister.”

The ramp lowers fully, revealing the city below. Cal can see crowds just a hundred feet below them, now filled with smoke, distant shouts and the exchange of laser fire. _Just like back in the Clone Wars._

The shuttle is racked with blaster fire again; the Captain responds with a few powerful blasts from the laser cannon. More smoke, more debris form. Through the cloud, more red-orange bolts fly through, some narrowly missing the entry ramp.

Trilla turns back to glance at Cal. He already knows what she’s trying to tell him. Then Trilla turns to face the outside—and she leaps. Ninth Sister and Third Brother follow soon after, activating their lightsabers as they jump into the fray below. The three Inquisitors are quickly swallowed up by the smoke.

“They shot out our shield generators, sir!” One of the Imperial officers announce.

“Blasted anarchists,” The Captain growls. “Backup’s still on the way. We’ll have to retreat for now.” He flips a few switches, then grabs hold of the yoke. A few more high-powered lasers fly from the shuttle, sending up yellow-orange plumes of fire. He turns the controls and the shuttle begins to tilt away. At the same time, the entry ramp starts to close.

An idea seizes him: a crazy, deranged, dangerous idea. The kind of idea BD-1 would love. Picturing his droid pal on his shoulder is enough for Cal to make up his mind; he stands. Immediately, the trooper commander Trilla had spoken to is on his feet, his blaster raised. 

“What are you doing?” He demands. “Sit down, scum.”

“No, thank you,” He says cheerfully. He's still lacking clever one-liners, but to hell with that: he won’t need them where he’s going. 

“Captain!” A trooper shouts to the flight deck. “Shut the ramp! Now!” 

That’s all Cal hears before the whistling of the wind carries their words away. He’s at the edge of the ramp now, looking down at the battle below. His rib still aches, and some part of him wishes he had accepted Third Brother’s stim. But no matter: whatever pain he’s feeling is surely a lot less painful than dying after coming this far. 

A blaster bolt comes by his head—so close, he feels the sting of it against his neck. This shorts out the collar; it deactivates and falls off pathetically.

Cal laughs. Then he laughs a little bit more. _Praise the Force._ Three more blasts go past his head—from both directions now—and for a second, Cal thinks it can’t be so bad, dying like this with the wind rushing through his hair and the warmth of Coruscant daylight on his skin. For the first time in weeks, he’s alive. He's _alive._

Then he leaps.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked third brother! i know i had fun writing a character who actually has the authority to sass trilla (other than cal, of course).  
> anyway, if you’re interested in reading more about project harvester, you should definitely check out darth vader (2017) #19 and that clone wars episode 'children of the force' (2x3). thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic now has a concept book! i’ve thrown in a bunch of notes and drawings i did to plan this story. i’ll keep updating it as we go. here’s the link: https://assets.adobe.com/public/72f282df-fa30-4f0b-6d11-59df569ab6ac
> 
> no promises on the quality though, im not a professional in any way.

Cal wants to regret his decision to jump: he’s injured and there’s a full-blown battle where he’s landing, among other sensible, sensible reasons not to—but he hardly has time to think before the ground is right below him. The view takes shape as he passes through the cloud of smoke. Here, between the shuttle and the ground, the wind is fierce and blaster fire is everywhere. In the distance, he sees Trilla’s lightsaber cutting into swarms of battle droids. 

He attempts a flip as the ground draws nearer, putting some distance between him and the hard ground before he crashes straight down. Whatever mania had overcome him is gone now—he’d like to live, to see his friends again, thank you very much.

Cal has a closeup of the Separatist forces from above just before he lands on his feet. Pain spikes up his legs, coming to a stop at his chest, then spreading from there. Cal bites back a hiss of pain, trying to take in his surroundings. It’s difficult with the smoke and debris flying everywhere, but it looks like he’s on a massive runway, one of the many in the city. He makes out the Inquisitors along with stormtroopers on the other side of this mess, slicing through battle droids and slowly working their way to the centre, where there’s an AAT-like vehicle firing at the retreating shuttle. 

_Where did they get that?_ Cal has to stop in awe despite himself. The Clone Wars ended five years ago. It’s a wonder that there are still Separatist forces lingering on Coruscant at all—but lately, he’s discovered that anything is possible. And it’s not like he’s complaining, anyway: without their interference, who knows how he would’ve managed to escape?

“Who are you? Identify yourself.”

He whips around to see a group of B1 battle droids—the audience to his drop from the shuttle. They’re all pointing their blasters at him. 

“Easy now…” His mind races for a plan. What are his chances of getting out of here without being shot?

Then one battle droid speaks up. “Is that a Jedi?”

“No, they’re all gone,” Another says.

“Oh. That’s good.”

Right. He’s forgotten how poorly programmed these droids are: he’d heard countless stories from the clones back in his Padawan days. Cal draws in a breath, calling the Force to his side. Then he pushes. The five battle droids go flying off the edge of the runway, screeching for help. Seeing his opening, he breaks into a run. 

“It _is_ a Jedi! Blast him!” The surrounding droids turn to him as he dashes past.

“Roger, roger!” More shots fly over his head, one dangerously searing as it goes by. The droids gather close, trying to seal off his escape. He casts his gaze around, looking for a way out as he flips over two of them. Connected to the runway is a skyscraper. He’ll go there, find a way down to the lower floors— 

A shot gets him in the shoulder. Cal lets out a shout of pain and glances back, throwing out an arm and sending another few droids flying. Then he gets to the inner entrance and the shots die down. He runs in, clutching his side and panting.

He immediately knows he’s made a mistake when he hears a robotic voice speak up. 

“Halt, intruder!”

He looks up. He’s in a big hangar, much like the one back in the Fortress, but instead of ships the entire facility is filled with more battle droids and several Imperial troops fighting them back. Several droids, taller and bulkier than the rest, stand in front of the group. _Super battle droids_. Cal swears under his breath.

He doesn’t give them the chance to turn him into target practice: he dashes back out into the daylight, where even more droids await. Still, he’d rather take his chances with them than with the droids inside. 

Okay. What now? Cal reaches the edge of the runway once more, peering down. There’s a skylane below with hardly any traffic—normally unheard of for a planet like Coruscant, but the news must have spread about the Separatist attack. 

Nevertheless, it’s his best bet: the fight between the droids and the Imperial forces is getting nearer by the second. Any later, and he might not be able to escape at all. 

Just then, he hears a familiar voice shout his name above the explosion of noise. “CAL KESTIS!”

He turns. Trilla stands a far distance away, a circle of fallen droids around her. Even through her helmet, he can just about feel the fury radiating from her. 

_Time to go!_ Cal turns back and looks down at the sparse skylanes. Is he really doing this again? So soon?

He thinks he hears BD speak up. _Beep boo-weep!_

“Yeah.” He laughs. “Let’s do this.”

Cal turns back to face Trilla. There are so many things he should say—but he settles for a smile. And, keeping with the reckless theme he’s been refining: Cal gives her a salute. (And oh, he can only hope to _imagine_ Trilla’s expression then.)

With those parting gifts, Cal turns and springs off the edge. “Woo-hoo!”

He’s free-falling again. The wind is like splintered wood against his injured shoulder. His chest feels like it might cave in from air pressure.

But all of that is superseded by the sight of the city around him. It’s all painfully familiar: the endless skyscrapers and towers stretching in all directions as far as he can see, the blue blue sky, the lights coming from every corner of the city no matter how bright the day...this high up, he can see all of it. He spots a building with five spires in the far distance—is that the Jedi Temple? It’s been a while since he’s been on its grounds. What’s happened to it now that the Empire’s taken over?

He pulls his gaze away from the horizon to refocus on his current situation. There’s an air taxi coming up; if he can time his fall right, he can land on it. Stretching his uninjured arm out, he feels for the connection between him and where he needs to go. It’s a bit of a twist on Force pulling, but it’ll work, he’s sure it will. If it doesn’t, well… 

Cal is close enough to see the taxi pilot now, a green-skinned sentient with a triangle-shaped head. The pilot looks up, then starts shouting something he can’t hear. Judging by the frantic way they wave their arms, it’s not good. (Then again, when has anyone falling out of the sky unequipped ever meant anything good?)

There’s still a bit of distance between him and the speeder. He strains, pulling himself closer against the weight of the wind, and finally comes close enough. He’ll make it. He’ll make it!

Cal crashes into the passenger seat of the speeder hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Then pain slams into him and all he can do is roll over and clutch his side for several long seconds, groaning. “Agh, that hurts…”

Not like he’s really keeping count or anything, but this is the fifth time he’s landed like this ever since the Inquisitors first discovered him. It’s a miracle of the Force that he’s not just a broken body in some deep ravine somewhere—or worse, in the Ibdis Maw on Bracca. 

It takes a while, but he eventually blinks away the dark spots in his vision to see the pilot, an Arcona, gaping openly at him. 

“Hi?”

“Are you outta your mind, kid?” The pilot speaks in heavily accented Basic, but the ‘kid’ is unmistakable—which makes him think about Greez. “You could’ve died! You’re lucky my speeder was here!”

“Yeah, lucky,” Cal agrees, wincing as he sits up. 

“What happened, anyway?” The pilot asks.

“Fell,” He says weakly. “Can you…” He hesitates, trying to form a new plan. Looking out, he sees that they’ve stopped. The skyscraper he’d leapt off is not far away; he’s not safe just yet. Trilla will be coming after him with the might of the Empire close behind. “Can you get me out of here?”

The pilot nods at his pockets. “You got credits?”

“Uh, no.” Cal glances back up at the platform, his heart racing. How long until Trilla sends a whole death squad after him?

“Didn’t think so.” The pilot sighs, placing one hand over the gearshift. “Fine. I’ll take you to the nearest drop-off point. It’s about lunchtime, anyway.”

His heart sinks with relief. “Thank you.”

The pilot lets out a noncommittal grunt, muttering something about ‘kids these days’. Then he speeds off down the skylane. 

Cal looks back at the fight as it starts to shrink in the distance. There are TIEs hovering in the sky now, and as he watches, their green lasers hit something and a huge yellow-orange cloud of fire swells from the runway.

He knows it will end with another loss for the Separatists: the real fight ended five years ago, anyway. But despite all the destruction they created during the wars, Cal can’t help but admire the loyalty the Separatists possess towards their cause—in some ways, they’re a bit like Cere and him and others out there who still believe in the Jedi.

“Rough situation back there, huh?” The pilot says, jabbing a thumb back. “Ah, just when you think the Empire’s keepin’ Coruscant safe…they let a buncha anarchists right into the city centre.”

“Yeah,” Cal agrees, thinking of Trilla. With enough luck and more miracles, it will be some time before they meet again. (It’s preferable that they don’t, though.)

“You’re not one of those Separatists, are you?” The pilot continues, squinting at him suspiciously. 

“What? No.”

“Just had to check.” He leans back. “You never know these days, what with all the madness in the galaxy. Take those Jedi, for example. After all those years of peace, and they suddenly try to assassinate the Chancellor?” He barks out a laugh. “Mad, I tell ya. Mad.”

Cal opens his mouth indignantly, then shuts it, forcing down what feels like a mouthful of poison. _He’s been lied to,_ Cal reminds himself. _They all have._ Being in Cere and Greez’s company has mostly made him forget about the galaxy’s stance on Jedi—the Empire excluded—but it doesn’t change the fact that the Jedi are now regarded as liars, as traitors. The reminder makes him sick.

“So, you’re from out of town?” The pilot asks. He glances at Cal up and down, and he’s suddenly aware of how ragged and worn he must look. It doesn’t help that he’s still bleeding out of his shoulder, the red seeping onto his clothes and leaving the metallic rank of blood in his nose. 

“Yeah. I’m here on a visit.” It’s not exactly a lie.

“A visit from where, Chaos?” The pilot chuckles. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ this, kid, you look like you’ve been through hell.”

Cal agrees privately. But it can’t be helped: between all the ship jumping, imprisonment and galaxy touring, how can he be expected to look presentable in any way? He looks down at his hands, observing the dirt and grime trapped under his nails. Forget presentable, when was the last time he had access to a real shower?

“We’re here,” The pilot announces a few minutes later. 

Cal looks up to see a sheltered docking bay a short distance away, the side of the tower emblazoned with the taxi company’s logo. The pilot guides the speeder out of the skylane, hovering down into an open spot between several other speeders. The bay is crowded this time of day; there are all sorts of pilots milling about and eating. It’s the most normal thing he’s seen so far. 

Cal hops out of the speeder once he lands, clutching his shoulder. He turns back to the pilot as he climbs out. “Thanks for the ride,” He says.

“Yeah, no problem, kid.” The pilot hesitates, his round yellow eyes darting to Cal’s shoulder; he covers it hastily with one hand. “You should really get that patched up.”

“I will.”

The pilot sticks his hands into his pockets and Cal starts to turn away. “Wait,” He starts, making him turn back. The pilot has a small handful of gold credits in his outstretched hand. “Here, take these,” He says. “You look like you could use a meal or two.”

Cal smiles, his heart suddenly full. “Thank you.”

The pilot drops the credits into his palm. “Just don’t get into trouble, ya hear?” He says in a friendly tone. “I got kids about your age. They’re always up to no good.”

He smiles again. _You don’t know the half of it._

Just as Cal turns away once more, tucking the precious credits into his pocket, all the speeder radios around him suddenly crackle and come to life. He frowns. This can’t be good. 

“Attention all Hyrotii Cooperation employees,” Comes a robotic voice. “This is an emergency broadcast made on behalf of the Galactic Empire. The Empire is searching for a wanted fugitive. He is a highly dangerous member of the Jedi Order…”

Cal glances around. All activity on the docking bay has stopped; everyone is listening in. He starts walking casually towards the exit, heart in his mouth.

“The Jedi is a human male with red hair and blue eyes, standing at a height of five feet nine inches, wearing a dark grey shirt and a brown jacket. He was last seen on an EasyRide passenger airspeeder near Hangar I-9 of the Federal District, at eleven hundred hours GST today. All employees are advised to be on high alert for this individual and are instructed to report all sightings to the authorities…”

“Hey!” The pilot calls after him. “Isn’t that you?”

All around Cal, suspicious faces turn to him. He breaks into a run. 

“Get him!” Another voice shouts.

He shouldn’t be worried about harmless pilots, Cal reasons to himself as he races towards the inner tower. They’re just civilians. It’s the Imperial forces he should be worried about. Just as he thinks this, the sound of blasters reaches his ears and a few lasers fly over his head. 

_Can’t catch a break, huh?_ Cal speeds up, running into the tower. Looking around, he sees that he’s in a busy interchange. He slips into a crowd of droids and sentients. 

“Don’t lose sight of him!” He hears someone else shout. 

Cal shoves his way through the crowd, wincing every time someone collides into him. Looking around, he spots a turbolift just up ahead; he can use it to get out of here, then from there he’ll find a way to get to his family somehow. Yeah, that sounds like a good enough plan. 

Not-Cal speaks up just then. _Are you sure you’ll find them?_

No—now is not the time for thoughts like that. He’ll make it. He'll make it! Cal grits his teeth and pushes forward. Up ahead, the turbolifts open, and the gathered crowd starts filing in. 

“Hold the lift!” He calls. He glances back. There’s a bit of a commotion far behind, followed by a few stray shots fired towards the high ceiling. Screaming starts. Hands shove him from behind. Cal’s view of the lift gets swallowed up by the taller sentients in front of him.

Cal keeps his hands out and ducks around them, pushing—maybe using the Force a little, but he reminds himself it’s necessary if he wants to get out of here alive. The crowd in front of him thins, just in time to reveal the closing lift doors. 

_Damn it!_ Cal casts his gaze around to find another way out. If there’s one thing he dislikes about Coruscant, it’s that everything is on different levels. Getting anywhere means needing to use use the lifts or a speeder. There’s nothing natural or organic to ground you to the horizon. Before the meditation gardens in the Temple, the only floor he’d ever set foot on was artificial—and even that was only accessible by the Durosian marble steps.

Cal continues to squeeze through the crowd of shoulders and heads as the shouting grows louder; the Empire must have found him by now.

“Stop right there!” Someone demands to his left. He turns, ducking instinctively. It’s an official-looking man in a blue uniform, his face sheltered by his white helmet. A quick glance tells him it's a security officer. A second glance reveals an electrobaton in his hand. 

He’s been chased by far, far worse. Cal dashes past, grinning. Did the officer really expect him to stop? In what galaxy would he do something like that?

“Oi! I said stop!” The officer gives chase, but Cal dives back into the crowd, quickly losing him. He swerves around a hulking sentient and comes in front of the set of doors that lead to the stairs. Finally—

—But then someone grabs the back of his jacket, yanking him back. Without thinking, Cal follows the momentum and swings his fist around. Something crunches sickeningly under his knuckles. The hand lets go, accompanied by an inhuman shriek. He doesn’t look back. Cal presses on, dashing into the stairwell, shaking out his suddenly aching fist. 

Looking down, he sees that the grey duracrete stairs go down so far that they disappear into the darkness. He’ll be willing to bet the last flight leads to the Coruscant underworld. He’s always heard about its reputation as the best place on the planet to disappear. Maybe he’ll find some help there. 

_Or more bounty hunters,_ Cal thinks grimly. But it’s his best chance of escaping the Empire, at least. He starts jogging down the stairs. He’s got a long, long way to go. 

His stomach starts growling unhelpfully about fifty flights down. It's been an eternity since his last lump of bread. He feels for the credits in his back pocket. When he reaches the undercity, his first priority will be to get a meal. Or two. His heart sinks a little as he thinks about the taxi pilot earlier. The Arcona had been so friendly—up until he learnt he was a Jedi. But then again, the announcement also painted him as some sort of dangerous madman. He sighs. Typical.

He’s so tired. It’s still a long way to the bottom. The darkness hasn’t budged, but the light at the top of the stairwell is already shrinking.

_What if I...jumped?_

The ache in his entire top half shuts the idea down as soon as it comes. He’s done vaulting off things for the day—there’s recklessness, and then there’s just plain suicide.

Cal tries counting the steps about a hundred flights down. Halfway through he’s reminded about his time in the dark room and he shudders and stops. Maybe he’d been more messed up by that than he thought. In any case, Cal has to remind himself he’s not afraid of the dark. He’s _not_. It’s his friend for now and definitely worlds better than having blasters pointed at his head.

It’s probably been an hour of hopping down the flights of stairs. They’re placed twenty at a time, with a little landing before the next flight. None of the landings has doors—definitely an oversight by some Coruscanti architect out there. This far down, the light at the top is only a speck in the sky. The rest of the lights, dotted sporadically down the stairwell, only flicker with a dim yellow light.

Oh, and the smell: the air gets noticeably heavier and more bitter with every flight. It’s a side of Coruscant he hasn’t seen before, that’s for sure. It almost reminds him of Bracca. 

Another half-hour passes. Cal keeps looking up, wondering how long it’ll be before the Empire busts down the doors to the stairwell and start shooting. They’re not stupid: they must have figured out by now that he’s still somewhere in the tower. But the darkness remains undisturbed.

At long last, Cal hits the final few steps and stumbles as his feet hit solid soil ground. He breathes a sigh of relief.

There’s a durasteel door at the end. He’s never been so happy to see a door in his life. 

The handle is rusted over when he tries—so not durasteel, then. Some cheap alloy. Cal has to push it open with the Force. It goes begrudgingly, swinging open with a banshee shriek that echoes upwards. 

And the sight that greets him is not good. 


	13. Chapter 13

“Hands up!”

A squad of Purge troopers close in, surrounding Cal as he steps through the door.

_Blast._

Of _course_ the Empire had been waiting for him all this while. Evidently, they aren’t as stupid as he’d thought. Or, he’s the foolish one for not anticipating this. In any case, he knows better than to fight. Even without all his injuries, he’s not getting past six Purge troopers with his life. He raises one hand in the air.

“Both hands!” 

“I can’t,” He snaps, pointing to his shoulder. The sharp pain has dulled somewhat, but his arm is definitely out of commission for now. 

The trooper closest to him is holding on to a pair of magnacuffs. “Don’t try anything funny, Jedi,” He warns. “Any movement from you, and I’ll shoot.”

“I don’t think Second Sister would want that,” Cal says. He knows he’s pretty much trying to hide behind her authority, but he really, really doesn’t want to get shot again.

The trooper snorts. “The Second Sister’s orders were to arrest you. How we go about doing it is not any of her business.”

The other Purge troopers start inching forward, their blasters trained at his chest. Far behind them, he sees shadows lurking away from the neon lamps around the street. Undercity residents, likely. Curious about the novelty. 

“Keep your hand up,” The trooper with the magnacuffs says, moving behind him.

Cal looks ahead, scowling at the rest of them through their lenses. It’s better than showing fear. He can’t imagine what Trilla will do to him once they meet. (He’s not sure he wants to, actually.)

It all happens so quickly. 

A flash of light gets his attention. It’s coming off a small object flying in the air. It soars through the air in an arc. The metal hilt catches the dim yellow glow of the street—and Cal suddenly realises what it is. 

He calls the phantom lightsaber to his raised hand, unable to help a grin from spreading across his face. It’s real. _Thank the Force_. One flick of the ignition switch and the green plasma blade activates, banishing all shadows from the street. 

“What—” The Purge trooper begins, but Cal swings the saber around, gutting him. He drops. 

“Fire!” The other five troopers start shooting at him, but Cal is faster. He deflects. The street lights up with blaster bolts. 

Then the Purge troopers start to fall. At first he thinks it’s the deflected bolts, but then he notices that the shots are coming from another angle. Somewhere hidden and high up. The same place the mysterious saber came from. 

His heart leaps. _Cere?_

There’s only one trooper left. He’s not even shooting at Cal anymore; he’s looking up at the neon-lit bridge above them, firing his blaster into the air. “Show yourself!” He shouts. “By order of the Galactic Empire, I command you to—ARGH!”

He collapses, motionless. Silence falls. 

Cal looks at the destruction around him. Six troopers lie dead on the ground. Clouds of dust, kicked up by the stray bolts, drift around their bodies. Just up ahead, a broken neon pink sign flickers and dies.

The gathered crowd shuffles close, muttering amongst themselves. Then someone roars something in an alien language, and a cheer rises up among them. Cal steps back, raising the saber defensively, but they don’t attack.

One member of the crowd, a purple-skinned Sakiyan, approaches one of the trooper’s bodies. He pulls the blaster from his limp fingers and cackles, hefting the weapon in his hands. The crowd starts to surround the other bodies. They don’t even spare him a glance.

That means he’s safe for now, then. Good, because he’s currently more concerned about finding his friends than fighting. Cal inches past the crowd as they begin to pull the armour from the troopers, arguing amongst themselves. _Better not give them a reason to notice me._

He gets past the group and peers up at the bridge, searching for the familiar silhouettes of his friends. Someone is looking down from above.

“Cere?” He calls, squinting. “Merrin?”

The silhouette stands, shouldering what looks like a blaster rifle. They attach a grappling hook to the side of the bridge and drop down to the street. Now that they’re closer, Cal can see that they’re wearing a black speeder helmet. His heart sinks. _It’s not them._

“Come with me,” The stranger urges, waving a gloved hand at him. Their voice is deep, but that could be from a modulator in their helmet. “We need to get out of here before the Empire sends backup.”

“Why should I trust you?” Cal challenges, tightening his grip around the saber. 

“Would you really rather get caught?” The stranger scoffs. He nods at the lightsaber. “Besides, who do you think gave you that?”

Cal lowers the saber. “No,” He admits. The stranger shakes their head. “Then let’s go.”

They turn away briskly, leaving him to catch up. He follows hesitantly. 

“Who are you?” He calls. “Are you a…”

The stranger cuts him off. “I’ll explain later.”

“Can you at least tell me how you found me?” Cal asks, jogging to keep up.

The stranger tilts his head to look at him. “It’s all over the local news. That, and the fact that they have been waiting for you all this time. Believe it or not, anything the Empire does down here tends to draw attention.” 

_That’s convenient,_ he thinks. His instincts are acting up, telling him not to trust this stranger. He doesn’t even need a reason why, but there are many. The underworld is easily one of the most suspicious places in the Core. The Haxion Brood is still out for his head. And most importantly, a lightsaber doesn’t mean the stranger is a Jedi; Cal could very well be walking right into a trap. 

Keeping his gaze alert, Cal takes in the streets around them as they walk. The underworld is _nothing_ like the cities above. For starters, it's like night time down here, even though he’s sure it’s still midday. Looking up, Cal can see the sky high above their heads, but the sunlight doesn’t touch the pavement down here. 

The stranger themselves is an interesting—if not all-around suspicious—subject. If Cal could take a guess, the stranger is human, but it’s hard to tell for sure. They’re wearing dark clothes, blending perfectly with the shadows around them. But him? Not so much. People, droids and sentients alike, give him suspicious looks as they pass. Cal decides to stuff the saber into his pocket, which only earns him a long look from the stranger. 

The stranger eventually stops in front of an unmarked shophouse lit with a single, flickering ‘Closed’ sign in the front. They remove a key card from their pocket and slide it into a slot by the rusted shutters. A small light flashes green, and the shutters raise noisily, revealing a dark space within.

“Get inside,” The stranger commands.

Cal looks at their helmet. “How do I know you’re not working for the Empire or the Haxion Brood?” Which is pretty late in their meeting to ask, but he has to know.

“You don’t.” The stranger shrugs. “But you can either try to evade bounty hunters and Inquisitors on your own—or you can trust me. It’s your choice.”

Trust someone? Here? It sounds like a risk he isn’t willing to take, but he doesn’t really see another way. “Fine,” He mutters.

The stranger turns away, ducking under the partially-raised shutters into the shop. Cal follows, his gut twisting with unease. The stranger moves to the end of the floor in the dark, setting their rifle down with a heavy sigh. They reach for a light switch and warm yellow lights flicker on, revealing a workshop-like space with crates and speeder parts lying around. 

Cal looks back at the stranger. They’ve removed their helmet, revealing a head of messy black hair. They turn to face him. 

The stranger is human, a man older than him with dark narrow eyes and a pointed chin. He turns away to set his helmet on the table, then brushes past Cal to lower the shutters manually. When he’s finished he nods at the lightsaber in Cal’s hand. “I’ll be needing that back, you know.”

“It’s yours?” Cal asks, turning the saber over in his grip. It’s a simple build, a lot like the training one he used as a youngling. Sensing echoes from the kyber crystal offers a few flashes of the Jedi Temple, but not much more. The stranger makes a ‘sort of’ face. “The one I used, yes.” 

“You’re a Jedi?” Cal asks. He has so many questions. How did he survive the Purge? And on Coruscant, no less? Was he a Jedi master? Are there others in hiding? Who was _his_ master?

The stranger looks at him, his sharp jaw working as he seems to consider something. “Are you hungry?” He asks instead, turning away. “I have food.”

“But—” Cal wants answers, but he stops himself. Plus, his stomach feels like it could cave in if he doesn’t get something to eat _soon_. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The stranger opens a door at the back of the shop and disappears through it. Cal debates following him, but then his knees suddenly go weak—from exhaustion, definitely. He’s drained. His cell in the Fortress feels like an eternity ago. Cal leans against the wall and slides to the dusty floor, clutching his ribs. His vision turns blurry; he could pass out right now if he wanted to. 

_It’s not safe,_ A voice urges even as his eyes start to close. _He could come back and kill you. Or worse, turn you in._

No doubt, staying alert is the more sensible decision. He has to stay awake. He needs to, he needs to… 

Well, he needs to pass out, right now. 

* * *

Cal opens his eyes to see a yellow light glaring at him from the ceiling. 

He sits up quickly, bracing for the pain—but it never comes. He looks down to see a bacta bandage bound firmly around his shoulder, the sleeve of his shirt cut clean off. _Well, there goes that._ He lifts his shirt to see another patch over his ribs. 

Cal glances around. He’s on a gurney, much like the one in the Fortress—which makes him panic until he notices a box of rusty spare parts in the corner. That means he’d somehow allowed the stranger to move him and treat his wounds in his sleep. And that isn’t to say that he isn’t grateful for the help or anything, but it’s worrying: it reminds him too much of Trilla and her tricks. 

Just then, a door to his right opens and the man steps through, a bundle of cloth under one arm and a metal bowl in his hands. “You’re up.” He says, walking up to the gurney. “You were practically comatose.” 

“Just tired…I think.” Cal rubs his eye. “How long was I out?”

“About four hours.” The man puts the bowl down on a small table next to him and offers the bundle out to him. “Here. Clothes.”

“Thank you,” Cal says, grateful. The man nods and starts to turn away. “I’ll let you rest now.”

“Wait,” Cal starts. “What’s your name?”

The man glances back at him. “Ellys.” 

“Thanks for the help, Ellys. I’m Cal.” 

“It’s nice to meet you.” His thin mouth presses into a grim line. He crosses his arms. “The Empire is looking for a Jedi matching your description, you know. They’re offering a hefty sum out for your capture.” 

Cold fear starts to trickle into his gut. “Are you gonna turn me in?” He _really_ doesn’t want to fight, especially after witnessing Ellys’ accuracy with a blaster, but if he has to… 

Ellys lets out a snort. “After I helped a Jedi take down a squad of their men? They’ll take me in, too.” Then he leaves. It isn’t the most comforting answer, nor does it guarantee that this Ellys guy won’t change his mind over a bunch of credits, but Cal wants to believe he’s safe for now.

He gets off the gurney and looks at the bowl. It’s a meal of cooked grains and pieces of jogan fruit. He picks up the spoon and takes a mouthful. It’s cold, but so much tastier than anything he’s had in a while. He polishes off the bowl within a few short minutes and sets it back down, satisfied. 

Next, he tries to change into the clothes Ellys gave him: a set of navy blue coveralls. Pulling his shirt over his head, Cal is very aware of how much dirt he’s accumulated over the past few days. Now dirt has never really bothered him, not after five years of scrapping ships, but even this is a bit much. He cringes, pulling off his clothes. He tries on the coveralls. They fit well, if not a bit big, but it’ll work. Besides, they’re clean. He won’t ask for more than that. 

Cal suddenly feels a small object poking his thigh through the pockets. He stuffs his hand in and pulls out a round pin with a medical cross on it. It’s a bit like the Medical Corps symbol, but he can’t be sure. The Medical Corps...he doesn’t know much about them, but he knows that they were expert healers who used the Force.

Cal tries to sense for an echo. More images of the Jedi Temple cross his mind, a focus on the infirmary. He catches a glimpse of a disembodied webbed hand passing a medpac over the broken figure of a young padawan boy.

“He’s gone,” Someone whispers. And that’s it. Cal frowns—if anything, he only has more questions now. 

He decides to leave the room after that. He arrives at the head of some stairs. Looking down, he sees a part of the main shop entrance just a floor below. He spots Ellys sitting at a rusty metal table, a collection of mechanic parts scattered in front of him. 

“Hey,” Cal says awkwardly when he reaches the foot of the stairs. He gestures to the clothes. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.” Ellys waves to a spare chair opposite him and Cal goes over to sit. He sees a scomp link in Ellys’ hands. “You’re building a droid?”

“Taking it apart, actually,” Ellys replies, turning the part over in his hands. “It’s an old astromech model. I’ll find another use for it.”

Cal thinks about BD-1 then, missing his droid friend. _Hope you’re alright, buddy._ Then he spots the lightsaber by Ellys’s side, and he remembers his questions. Cal takes the pin out and sets it on the table. “Is this yours?”

Ellys glances up. Pain momentarily flashes across his dark eyes, then it’s gone. He reaches for it. “Yes.” 

“You were part of the MedCorps?” Cal hesitates. “How…how did you escape the Purge?”

Ellys thumbs the cross on the pin, nodding. “I served the Order for eight years. I happened to be away from the Temple when the Purge began…then went into hiding. I’ve been here ever since.” He looks up, studying Cal’s face. “You don’t look old enough to be a Jedi knight,” He remarks. “Are you a Padawan?”

“Yes. My…my master died before I could finish my training.” Now Cal has to wonder what Master Tapal would’ve thought of Ellys. Would he trust him?

“I’m sorry.” Ellys seems to consider something. He gives him a small smile. “You must be one hell of a Padawan if the Empire is after you so badly. What did you do, steal something of theirs?”

Cal grins. “Something like that.” He can’t help but return his gaze to Ellys’s lightsaber then, thinking about the last time he had his. Ellys catches this. “Where’s yours?”

Cal grimaces. “The Inquisitors took it when they locked me up in their base.” He still doesn’t know why he’s sharing all this, but feels good to finally talk to someone who understands and isn’t out to get him. _At the moment, anyway._

Ellys gives him a surprised look. “And you’re still alive?” 

“Yeah. I escaped after they transferred me here.” Cal thinks about ‘here’, abruptly remembering where _here_ is: Coruscant, where his parents are. Where Trilla is. Where she and the other Inquisitors will be hunting them down while he sits here, in hiding.

No. He’s already wasted too much time. Cal stands. “I should be going.” 

“You’re safe,” Ellys tells him. “You can stay for as long as you like.”

“It’s not that,” Cal replies. “I have something important I need to do.” He’s getting nervous, his nerves shifting back into what he’ll call ‘fugitive mode’. Who knows how long it will take until Trilla finds him? Or his family?

Ellys sets the scomp link down. “Are you leaving Coruscant?”

Cal shakes his head. “I need to look for…someone, first. Then my friends. We got separated when the Inquisitors found me.”

“Your friends?” His eyes are wide. “Are there surviving Jedi out there?”

“Actually,” Cal says, smiling, “One’s a retired Jedi Master, one’s a Latero, and one’s a Nightsister.” When Ellys looks surprised, he adds, “We want to restore the Order.”

Ellys shoots him a sceptical look. “How? The Empire was thorough. You’re the first Jedi I’ve met since the Purge.”

Some part of Cal is telling him to stop talking, _now_ , but he decides then that it’s okay: Ellys knowing about the holocron isn’t going to ruin anything. Unless he’s working for the Empire, of course, then he’s in a lot of trouble.

But would a man working for the Empire _really_ take down a squad of Purge troopers? 

“Okay, so there’s a holocron…” He sits and tells Ellys about the list of Force-sensitive children. Then he fills him in on Cordova’s quest. By the end of it, Ellys just looks amazed, his eyes bright.

“I don’t believe it.” Then his face falls slightly. “I don’t want to bring you down, Cal, but you haven’t heard from your friends in a while. How sure are you that the Empire hasn’t found them?”

“That’s the thing: I don’t know. It’s been over a week.” Cal hunches his shoulders. It occurs to him there’s a lot he doesn’t know, including anything remotely related to his family. He doesn’t even know their _names._ Does he have siblings? He’s clueless, stranded on Coruscant with no safe way out. 

_They’ve all abandoned you,_ Not-Cal reminds him viciously. _They’ve moved on. Forgotten._

Ellys chews on his lip. “I can help,” He says a second later. 

Cal wants to accept, of course. He’s been fighting on his own for a while now; it _would_ be nice to have another person to help, even if neither of them are full-fledged Jedi. A sort-of Padawan and a MedCorps member is better than none at all.

He opens his mouth to say yes. But before he can, an image of Prauf, with Trilla’s lightsaber though his chest, descends upon his mind’s eye. Prauf fades into Master Tapal on the floor of the escape pod, his still figure riddled with dark blaster holes. And before he can stop it, he hears Trilla’s voice, cruel and sharp against his ears. 

_Whatever happens next is a consequence of your actions._

Ellys survived this long on his own. If he brings him into his mess, who knows what might happen to him?

“Well?” Ellys prompts. 

“I appreciate it, Ellys,” Cal starts, averting his eyes. “But I have to do this on my own.”

Ellys purses his lips. “If you’re sure. I’m guessing you have a plan?”

“Not really,” He admits. “But…I’ll figure it out.”

Ellys looks doubtful. He turns away to reach for a shelf. When he turns back there’s a small blaster pistol in his hands. “Take this, at least,” He says, offering it out. “You may have lasted this long unarmed, but you’re not invincible.”

Ha. He's felt _anything_ but invincible these past couple of days. “Thanks.” Cal weighs the pistol in his hands. It looks a lot like the DC-17s the clones used. He tucks it in his pocket. 

“At least let me give you a lift to the surface?” Ellys offers. “I don’t see how you’re getting out of the undercity without a speeder.” He gives him a humourless smile. “You’re not planning on using the stairs again, are you?”

Cal hesitates. “It’s still risky.”

Ellys waves his concern away. “I transport goods from the upper floors to the undercity. We’ll just hide you among the cargo. It’ll be fine.”

“What about you?” He tries to reason. “If they catch you, they’ll kill you.”

“Look, Cal, I may not have the same level of training you do,” Ellys says, walking over to a drawer, “But I’ve been here a while. I know it’s safe enough to try. Trust me."

Trust him? That's a mighty task to ask from someone he's just met. But something tells Cal that he can.

“Well…alright. If you think so. Thanks.” He still doesn’t feel entirely comfortable about accepting his help. But Ellys has a point: he’s not going to climb those steps again, especially if troopers are watching that area, and he’s not about to jack a speeder, either. 

“I know so.” Ellys corrects. He shoulders on a jacket and reaches for his helmet. “Come on, it’s dark out. Let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know if it’s a bit late to bring this up, but this fic might take a while to complete. don't worry though, i've got a plan. also, i haven't forgotten about the mantis crew, so we'll see how they're doing on dathomir in a bit.  
> thanks for sticking with the story so far :)


	14. Chapter 14

**_Ten Days Ago_ **

It’s all going well.

At least, as well as things can when the ship they’re piloting is spewing smoke from her engine. 

While they had managed to shake the Empire for now, there’s no denying the Mantis had sustained a considerable amount of damage on the way out. Her wing was dotted with blaster holes. They’d entered hyperspace with a damaged hyperdrive. The main reactor was making a worrying whining noise.

Alarms continued to sound throughout the ship as Greez piloted the Mantis. “Can you switch those off?” Cere finally says when she can no longer stand it, massaging her throbbing temples. He nods, reaching for a switch, and blissful silence falls. “Thank you.” She takes the co-pilot seat and reads through the damage report displayed on the screen. What she sees is not assuring.

“Captain?” She asks. “How sure are you that we’ll make it to Dathomir in one piece?”

Greez hums in thought. “About…ninety-nine percent. The Mantis hasn’t failed us yet.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. Cere decides not to question him further. 

A few hours later, the Mantis shudders and bursts out of hyperspace—about half a lightyear off from Dathomir, according to the monitor. Another alarm starts up, this one louder than the one before. 

“What’s going on?”

“It’s the hyperdrive!” Greez shouts. He flips a few switches back and forth, to no avail. “It’s dead!”

That’s bad news, to say the least. Without hyperspace, their journey only becomes unnecessarily longer. She shakes her head. “We’ll just have to make the rest of the way in realspace,” She says, resigned. “Is there any way you can make the Mantis go faster?”

“Yeah, but it’s still gonna take a while.” Greez fires the engines up and the Mantis begins cruising forward. He glances back at her, his brows furrowed. “I’m worried about Cal."

“So am I, Greez,” She says, a sinking feeling in her chest. “The Fortress is…more than what anyone can take. Not unless you’re like them.”

Greez swallows visibly. “Let’s just hope he holds out till we get him.”

Cere nods, and to do something, anything, she checks the time. It doesn’t ease the twist in her gut to see that several hours have already passed since their escape from Bogano. Who knows what could’ve happened to Cal since?

* * *

“It’s not looking great.” Greez pokes his head out from the deck below, his expression grave. “Those TIEs busted our hyperdrive units when they hit the engines. We can’t enter hyperspace till I get it fixed.”

“And how long will that take?” Cere asks, frowning. It’s bad: for every minute they spend here, Cal could be getting himself into even more trouble.

Greez disappears back down the ladder. She hears him tinkering for several minutes. A cloud of smoke rises from below. Then he returns, his grey skin coated in dust. “With this degree of damage—?” He breaks off coughing. “A few days, at least.”

“That’s not good at all.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Greez huffs. “Looks like we’ll be having a nice little vacation on Dathomir.” He glances back as if something’s lying in wait for him. “Remind me _why_ you picked this place again?”

“Because the Empire will not find us here,” Merrin says, joining them. “And the Nightbrothers will no longer harm your crew. I guarantee it.”

Greez swallows. “Great. Great. Let’s listen to the Nightsister. She says we’re safe.” He sounds borderline hysterical. “We’re safe!” 

“It’s okay, Greez,” Cere says, shaking her head. “You don’t have to go out there. You can stay with the Mantis.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” He grumbles. “And what about you two?” 

“I will need to speak with Brother Ferine,” Merrin says. “He is the new leader of the Nightbrothers.” Her lips draw into a thin line. “But it won’t be easy.”

“Wait, don’t they listen to you?” Greez asks.

“They do, but they also believe that all outsiders are dangerous,” Merrin says. ”Their belief has only deepened after what they assumed was a declaration of war from the Jedi. Cal took down many of their men. They’re ready for battle.” 

Cere frowns. “Cal never mentioned that.”

Merrin sighs. “He acted in self-defence. But I cannot deny that his methods were more…aggressive than I’d anticipated. Malicos was not pleased.” 

_That’s troubling._ Cere wants to believe it was self-defence that made Cal act that way. But just like the fine line between the light side and the dark, the same stands for the one between self-defence and murder. It’s not a comforting thought. 

“And what about you, Cere?” Greez prompts, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I don’t recommend staying with the ship: it tends to get pretty dusty from repair work.”

“That’s okay. I can help if you—?”She begins, but he quickly cuts her off. 

“Thanks, Cere, but I don’t think I’ll be needing help down here.” He holds up a hand. “Besides, I’ve got four arms. I don’t need an extra pair.”

“I think I know what this is about.” She smiles, putting her hands on her hips. “You don’t trust me to fix your ship.”

“What? No, it’s not that!” Greez protests. “You know I trust you, right? It’s just…there’s a lot of intricate work to be done here. I can manage by myself.”

“Alright, alright. Thank you.”

Greez nods. “Don’t mention it. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be…” He gestures down the ladder.

“Of course. We’ll leave you to it.”

Merrin and Cere leave the ship. Immediately, the ramp retracts and they hear the doors lock. Cere smiles. _Paranoid as always._

Merrin turns to her. “It will be better if I spoke with Ferine alone,” She says. “But first, I can show you where Malicos used to live. He may have some supplies we could use.”

Malicos’s home? Perfect. She had been meaning to ask. “That’ll be a start.”

Merrin nods. “Do you have your blaster?”

Cere pats her hip, feeling it in her side holster. “Yes. Why?”

“Good.” Merrin starts to walk ahead. “I can subdue most of the creatures that live here, but we will need it as a precaution.”

“Anything I should look out for in particular?” Cere looks around. She hadn’t had an opportunity to explore the last time they were here; now that they’re standing outside on the rocky red ground, it’s hard to deny the dark energy suffocating the air. She can almost start to understand Malicos’s fall to the dark side. Almost. 

“Nydaks frequent this part of the planet,” Merrin answers. “Those creatures are hulking, fast and have a pair of large front limbs. They will be difficult to miss.”

They do eventually spot a nydak—in the form of a half-eaten carcass with lightsaber burns and missing front limbs ( _attached_ front limbs, that is). Cere winces despite herself. 

“Are all Jedi as liberal with their weapons as Cal?” Merrin wonders as they walk past. 

“Some,” Cere admits. “But not all of us. Cal had his learning interrupted after the Jedi purge; most of his moves are adapted from formal training.”

“Formal training…” Merrin takes on a contemplative look. “I would like to learn more about the Jedi.”

“Of course. What do you want to know?”

Merrin gestures to the carcass. “I do not understand how a society of peacekeepers can wield such violent weapons.”

“We were raised on the belief that we should only use violence as a last resort,” Cere begins. “Before the Clone Wars and the Empire, Jedi didn’t usually get involved with fighting. We used logic and diplomacy to defuse a situation.”

“And how much success did you have with diplomacy?” A herd of massive spiders emerge from the rocks just then, but Merrin simply flicks out a hand; mist surrounds them and they turn away. 

“We did, usually,” Cere says, even as she recalls a memory of her Padawan self: so impulsive, so ready to draw her lightsaber at the slightest indication of danger. “Only when a situation seemed to have lost any chance of a peaceful resolution did we draw our weapons.” They watch the spiders scuttle into a gap between two jagged rocks. “But I have to admit, peace isn’t always a priority during a confrontation.” 

Merrin purses her lips. “The lightsaber-wielding creature that struck down my sisters did not seem to share that sentiment.”

She must be talking about General Grievous. Cere has never seen the half-droid, half-Kaleesh leader in person, but she knows his weapon of choice: lightsabers, taken as spoils from the battlefield.

“He didn’t belong to the Jedi Order,” She says. “Those lightsabers were stolen from the Jedi he defeated.”

“Even if that were so, I do not understand why he attacked my people,” Merrin replies, her gaze distant. “Malicos said the Republic thought we were too powerful to be allowed to remain…I now realise that was another lie.”

“His name was Grievous,” Cere explains. “He served Count Dooku, a leader in a Separatist movement dissatisfied with the Republic.” She tries to fill Merrin in on the events of the Clone Wars then. As they talk, it dawns on her just how much Merrin doesn’t know about the galaxy at large—only that the fighting eventually reached her world, burning it down just like it did the Order. But one thing Cere knows is that war is fair: fair in the administration of punishment those who never asked to fight.

She concludes with the fall of the Republic, and the rise of Palpatine’s Empire, just as they reach the top of a rocky hill overlooking the Nightbrother village. A hut made of orange-red stone and scrap metal sits in the middle, the wooden door torn off. Pottery lies scattered and broken around the house. 

“This was his home.” Merrin points to the door. “But…” She frowns and takes a cautious step forward. “Someone was here before us.”

Cere’s hand drifts to her hip.

“It is the work of Ferine’s men,” Merrin concludes. “They are no longer here, but they must have learned about Malicos’s death and came to scavenge.”

Cere walks up to the house and peers in. The destruction continues all the way inside: an overturned bed frame, more shattered pottery, red dust everywhere. “Let’s just hope they left behind something we can use.”

* * *

Malicos’s home provided spare tools and food supplies—questionable food supplies, but Cere had faith in Greez’s abilities—and not much else. Other items included artefacts from the wars, including a dead commlink, jammed blasters, and several clone trooper helmets. A pile had been stacked haphazardly in a corner, resembling a makeshift altar. Cere left those behind and made her way back to the ship with the food.

Merrin rejoined the party just as the sun vanished on the horizon, making way for a splash of distant stars high above them. By then, Cere had managed to coax Greez out of the ship to start a small fire; they’re now seated on stone slabs arranged around it, taking in its warmth.

“Ferine has decided to stand down,” Merrin reports as Greez passes out steaming mugs of hot chocolate. “The Nightbrothers have agreed that they will no longer attack.”

“Thank you for speaking with him,” Cere replies, grateful. “We really never meant to trespass.”

Merrin nods. “That is what I emphasised to Ferine. Thankfully, unlike his brothers, he still manages to see reason.” She gazes into the contents of her mug, silent for a moment. “And I…I managed to lay my sisters to rest.” 

Cere had been wondering about that. Earlier, she’d seen Merrin on top of one of the cliffs a distance away, a cloud of magick surrounding her. All of Dathomir fell silent for a second, even the whispering of the wind, then something in its ancient ground settled as if drawing its final breath.

Cere mirrors her movement. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Merrin. I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but the truth is…” She hesitates. “It doesn’t.” 

She doesn’t know what else she can say. Phrases like _I understand what you’ve been through_ —or reciting one of the many, _many_ Jedi teachings on letting go just seem untrue, insincere, so she keeps them to herself. Merrin seems to understand. She nods. The air turns sombre, the only sounds being the crackling of the fire and the sizzle of dinner as Greez cooks. A bitter smell starts to drift through the air.

“You know, I still can’t figure out what you brought me,” He speaks up eventually, shaking the pan over the flames. “It’s some kind of plant—a nut, maybe? But it doesn’t go with anything I have on board.” He gives it a doubtful sniff. “Are you sure it's even meant to be eaten?”

“That is mushling root,” Merrin says, leaning in. “Edible to most life forms, but hallucinogenic in large portions. A favourite of Malicos’.”

“That would explain a lot.” Greez grins. “From what the kid said, he sounds crazy for sure.”

Merrin has an amused smile on her lips. “He may very well be. Dangerously so.”

“You sure it's safe to eat, though?” Greez asks, taking the pan off the heat. “You know—I mean, I’ve lasted this long, seen some pretty incredible stuff. I’m not sure I wanna go like this.”

“It is safe, I assure you.”

“Oh. That’s good, then.” Greez stabs a piece with a fork and tosses it into his mouth. 

“I think,” Merrin adds. 

Greez coughs the mouthful out into the pile of sticks beside him. 

* * *

Cere knows, more than anyone in their crew, perhaps, that it’s not easy to sever a connection with something as life-giving and natural as the Force. It almost feels like trying not to breathe when you’re kicking underwater: necessary, but try going too long without air and you suffocate.

It doesn’t help that the Sage’s tomb feels like a vast well of the Force. She knows better than to try tapping into it, though: it’s a dark place, harbouring the same kind of darkness that drove Malicos mad and continues to taint the very ground they walk on.

And yet, she has to wonder.

On their first night on Dathomir, Cere is roused gently by a quiet whispering in her ear. What starts off as mild irritation becomes intrigue as she lies back, listening to the voice. Eventually, the words seem to repeat in a string, over and over, like a chant. She closes her eyes and sifts through a memory of the Archives. Finally she has to conclude it’s not a language she recognises, let alone understands. 

Wisdom tells her not to listen. The Force tells her something different. 

Cere sits up slowly, taking in the darkened walls of the Mantis around her. The sound of Greez’s snoring drifts through the air, mingling with the creaking from the ship. He’s asleep in the lower decks while Merrin had chosen a spot on the passenger seats outside.

Except, when Cere goes out to the passenger deck, she finds it empty. Instead, the blast doors are unlocked, the boarding ramp lowered, and she steps out to find Merrin still seated by the dying embers with her eyes closed. 

“You sense it,” The Nightsister says as a greeting.

“Yes.” Cere sits down opposite her. “It's coming from the tomb, isn’t it?”

Merrin opens her eyes. “It is. The tomb has always been a vessel of ancient power—power beyond my sisters’ understanding, but since Cal took the astrium, I believe that something inside it has awakened.” 

“And Malicos? Did he manage to decipher its secrets?”

Merrin nods. “Yes, and I helped him. But he was driven mad by the darkness that dwelled within.” A bitter expression crosses her features. “Though, I suppose he always was.”

Now that Cere’s outside, the chanting has only grown louder. There’s no doubt that the voices are calling her towards the tomb, likely in the same way it spoke to Malicos. 

“You wish to seek out its power,” Merrin observes. 

“No, not really,” Cere answers. “I cut myself off from the Force because…” She pauses. “Well, in a moment of weakness, I used the dark side of the Force. I _hurt_ people. I can’t take that risk again.”

She closes her eyes, swallowing down a sudden wave of guilt. How could she have done that? Cere can’t help but picture Trilla then, of the last time she’d seen her former apprentice; of the way Trilla had looked, a scarred and abandoned child, just before she put her helmet on and sealed her fate as the Second Sister.

The fury and pain etched in every line of Trilla’s face had haunted her for months—and as Cere pictures her old Padawan now, she discovers that the memory never dulled. It’s this that makes her wonder, now: can she find a way to save both Cal and Trilla? Get them both out before it’s too late?

“You are not like Malicos,” Merrin says gently, leaning forward. “And I may not have known you long, Cere, but I…” She hesitates. “I believe you will not permit yourself to wield power in the same way.”

Cere smiles. “Thank you, Merrin.”

“If you want to seek out the tomb, I can show you the way,” She offers. “There may be the answers you seek there.”

Cere watches the embers shift and glow, considering. There’s no way of predicting how exploring the tomb would go, or just how powerful the darkness is at its source.

But isn’t that part of life? Not knowing? Eno was fond of saying that. In fact, facing the unknown was part of his philosophy. If he were here, he’d encourage her to go. She can already hear his calm, yet convincing voice. _You’ll never know until you find out._

Either way, Cere finds herself getting onto her feet. “Yes. Show the way, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, it's been a while. i'm really sorry about not updating. i didn't mean to go on a hiatus but school became really demanding around the time i last updated ++ the narrative flow for these few chapters is honestly a terrible mess and i just didn't want to deal with it. 
> 
> one more thing, sorry about not replying to comments. if I'm being real i guess i felt ashamed, and just started dodging ao3 completely :( but now that i'm here, i’d like to thank you for your patience. i'll try my best to go back to regular updates now that i'm on sem break!
> 
> alright that's enough rambling from me now. i hope you liked this chapter and thanks again, love you guys <3


	15. Chapter 15

They make their way through the rough terrain as the chanting grows louder and louder. In the distance, the tomb is a tall shadow in a night saturated with faraway stars. 

“You don’t hear it?” She asks a seemingly unaffected Merrin. The nightsister shakes her head. “No, the call is not meant for me. But I feel it.”

They reach the main entrance. The set of tall black doors open with a loud groan as they near, as if anticipating them. It’s almost pitch black inside. Merrin raises a hand and a green orb of magick appears in her hand, barely lighting their way. With every step, the dread in the pit of her stomach grows.

And yet, Cere feels as if she could take a deep breath in this great sea of ancient power.

She decides to do it; she draws that breath.

The moment she does, Cere is struck by an overwhelming rush of warmth and light and clarity. She hears the voices clearly now—voices not belonging to the tomb, no, but of the Jedi that came before and of the ancient enigma that is the Force. They seem to surround her, binding themselves to her, then stretch out further, beyond this physical realm.

And they all say one thing to her, the only thing Cere cares to hear: _the Force is with you._

All around her, the tomb fills with light—light so bright, it claims her vision. Cere holds a hand up to shield her eyes, but the glow fades as soon as it comes. When it clears, the dark tomb has burned away.

Cere finds herself in the gardens of the Jedi Temple. The view is...for the lack of a better word, unsettling. She crouches, brushing her fingers over the neatly-kept Geonosian violets closest to her. They may not be real, but they _feel_ real, and that’s what matters. She’s home. _Home_ : where there's no war, no fear, and most importantly, no Empire.

Now, Cere can already picture her master walking through the paths, an ancient cypher in hand. With its lush flora, crystal-clear springs and iridescent aqua creatures, the meditation gardens were Eno’s favourite place in the whole temple—second to the Archives, of course, but it wasn’t uncommon to find him outside, soaking in the sun, poring over material from the library. 

That, of course, is what happens. A pair of scuffed-up, slightly-muddy leather boots come into her line of sight. She looks up to see her old master, a serene smile on his face and a book tucked under one arm. “Hello, Cere.”

“Eno,” She greets, rising. “It’s so good to see you again.” And it is. The last time they’d come face to face, Cere had waved a frantic farewell as she and Trilla ran for the youngling dormitories while Eno headed toward the Archives. _We’ll rendezvous off-world when it’s safe,_ He’d said. _May the Force be with you._

Eno’s kind smile grows. “Likewise, Cere. It’s been a while.” He gestures to a nearby stone bench sheltered by the shade of a tall Wroshyr. They sit and Eno turns to her.

“It seems to me that you’ve been having many great adventures,” He says, a spark of what looks like pride in his eyes. “I’m proud of you. My regret is that I’m not there to document them all.”

“Thank you, Eno.” Cere wrings her hands. “But you’re too kind. I failed...” She sighs. “I failed Trilla. And now…now I just might lose Cal, too.”

“That may be so. But isn’t that the beauty of life? To make mistakes? To fail?” He gives her a questioning look. “We make mistakes, but we live to learn from them. We survive to better ourselves and correct our past wrongdoings.” He lets out a short laugh. “Forgive me, old friend. You know I tend to nag when I can.”

“You’re not nagging,” She says, smiling. In fact, if there’s one thing she’s missed about him, it’s his nagging. “You’ll always have something to teach me. I appreciate it.”

His hazel eyes crease in a kind smile. “The same can be said for you, Cere. A lot of what you know, I never taught. For instance,” He gestures to her blaster, “I don’t recall ever taking you to target practice.”

“That’s true,” She admits. “But I’m sure the Council wouldn’t have appreciated that.” They share a smile, then a short silence falls as they watch a neon yellow butterfly drift by, reflecting golden light into their eyes.

“I’m glad you decided to reopen your connection to the Force,” Eno says afterwards. “You know what that says about you?”

“What?”

“That you’re winning the fight,” He says. “In there.” He points at the centre of her chest. “You said yourself that facing the dark side within is the duty of every Jedi.” He pauses. “You may not be aware of it, Cere, but the very fact that you’re here shows that you’re winning.”

It’s as if there’s a sudden weight on her shoulders. Cere leans back on her hands. “I don’t know if I’ve truly overcome it just yet,” She admits. “It’s just…”

“You don’t need to know,” Eno says gently. “You just have to face it, day by day, as it comes. And one day…” He trails off to look up at the bird that’s just landed above them. “One day, when you’ve won, you’ll know.”

Cere lets his words sink in. They are not ideas she’s hearing for the first time, that’s for sure: she _knows_ she’s doing her best to fight back all the time. The difference here is that Eno is the one telling her these things—and well, that makes all the difference. 

Eno stands. He walks ahead, leaning down to look at the violets. “You’ll find a way back to her. I know you will.” He glances back meaningfully. “Go, Cere. It’s time. May the Force be with you.”

“Eno—” Cere begins, but the light returns, quickly swallowing up her view of her old master. He turns and their eyes meet one final time. 

“Thank you,” She says instead, forcing a smile. Then she blinks, and the dark tomb falls back into place around her. She squints, her eyes readjusting to the dark.

“Cere?” 

She turns. Merrin is standing behind her, hands resting behind her back. Cere straightens—she’d fallen to her knees somehow—and dusts her clothes off. 

“Did you see what you wanted?” Merrin asks, walking up to her. 

“Not what I wanted, exactly…” Cere takes a deep breath. Everything feels crystal clear now. “But what I needed.” She turns to look at the inner chambers of the tomb. It’s just up ahead, the small gap leading to it illuminated only by a small torch on the crumbling wall. The chanting has since quietened down, but there’s a new strength to whatever the voices had been cultivating, right inside her heart, pulling her to where she needs to go. 

Fear tells her not to follow; the Force tells her something different. Cere knows what to choose, of course—but when they enter the inner chambers and see a pair of lightsabers sitting patiently on the ground, she’s convinced it's her eyes attempting to deceive her.

It isn’t a deception. As she inches closer, she sees that it really _is_ a pair of lightsabers, arranged in an X-cross on the floor, waiting for a new owner to come by. Once Cere is close enough the voices die down: they’ve accomplished their mission. _This_ is what they wanted her to see.

She takes a step forward. Another. She knows what she has to do.

Cere lifts her hand and concentrates. _The Force is all around us. It surrounds us and binds the galaxy together._ Master Yoda had taught her that as a youngling, forty years and a lifetime ago. Everything is part of the Force, even the darkest, most twisted things. 

The lightsabers fly into her outstretched grip as if they’d always intended to be there. Cere can’t help but smile then; she’s done it. She flicks the ignition and the dark tomb is filled with its crimson glow. 

She turns one of the sabers over in her hand. It’s elegant in design, with its horned metal emitter and sweeping curls carved into the hilt. A bit extravagant for a Jedi General like Taron Malicos, but she supposes he must have made it to suit a king of Dathomir. Just like the way the crystal is no longer good and pure, but plagued with something foul and ancient.

“The tomb is offering you a gift,” Merrin remarks, coming to stand beside her. The red glow reflects in her eyes. “But Cere, it will expect something in return. It never gives freely.”

“What does it want?” Cere wonders aloud, but then the answer comes to her. Now that Malicos is gone, whatever ancient entity that haunts the Sage’s lies in wait for a successor. Someone to release its potential. 

“I can’t deny that the power, like all power, is tempting.” Merrin is observing her carefully. “But it’s dangerous, more than what any of us can control. I don’t advise you to accept, Cere.”

Cere nods. “I know. I won’t do it.” As she speaks, the air around them seems to grow heavier, turning into a physical weight on her shoulders.

“Then the tomb will take away what it gave.”

Cere looks down at the sabers. They suddenly feel foreign in her hands, as if unwilling to be there. “Let it.” 

“Or…” Merrin raises her hand. Magick twists around her fingers. “I have an idea. But it could be risky, for both of us. And I will need your help.”

Cere looks up, curious. “Tell me.”

* * *

Back in the lower decks of the Mantis, Greez rolls over and opens his eyes. Something had definitely woken him up. The question is, what did? The Mantis is dark and still. It reminds him of the time he and Cere had to power her down to hide from stormtroopers back on that dark, rainy planet. Or that one time he and Cere powered down to avoid detection back on that trash planet. Or like the time _he_ powered down to do repairs just as a red sun had started to set on—

 _Dathomir_. Greez sits up, suddenly more alert than the time he’d downed ten cups of caf for that one bet back on Lateron. _Dathomir!_ That’s right: they’re still here, _here_ being by far the worst planet they’ve ever had the misfortune to be stuck on. (And that’s counting all the Imperial-infested worlds, even Hutt space.)

 _You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine._ Greez reaches over and turns the light on, illuminating the cramped lower deck with a flickering yellow light. Somehow, this makes things worse. The poor light creates shifting shadows around the cramped workspace; it’s too easy to picture something lurking in the dark. _Dead witches can’t teleport…can they?_ And he knows that the nightsister made them go away, but still…

That’s it. He’s going to get a drink. According to his great-nan, there’s nothing a mug of hot chocolate or a steaming bowl of shaak stew can’t cure—and she’s right.

Greez climbs up the ladder leading up to the sleeping quarters, secretly hoping to himself that Cere and Merrin are up. It’d be easier than sneaking around trying not to wake them, and plus, having a Jedi and a nightsister around will be safer. _Much_ safer.

Except when Greez hoists himself up the final step, his gaze is instantly drawn to the now-vacated, neatly-made single bed. _Uh-oh._

“Cere?” He calls, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Uh, Merrin?” No answer, just the sinister sound of wind whistling outside and something he _hopes_ is just the Mantis creaking. He takes a step forward into the dark. He can see the soft glow of the holotable and a glimpse of the stars outside, but judging by the darkness that lies between, all that might as well be a parsec away.

Greez steels himself, shuffling forward silently until he can just about feel the light switch on the wall. Pushing it, the lights above the dining area come to life. He takes a moment to breathe. Everything appears normal: the jar of instant caf in the corner, the teeming basket of meiloorun right next to it, the bogling on the table… 

_The bogling on the—?_

Greez can’t help it: he lets out a shout. “Hey!” The furry, oversized rat whips around, eyes popping out of its skull, and hops off the table, quickly scampering down to the passenger deck. 

“Get back here!” What was initially fear quickly morphs into the mad bravado and fury only the captain of a luxury cruiser could have: Greez dashes after the creature, who, upon seeing a stout, grey figure with four outstretched arms racing after him in the dark, lets out an alarmed squeak and dashes toward the flight deck. 

“No!”

Greez chases the bogling down, cornering it against the comms station. It squeaks, baring its teeth. There’s a flash of orange fur in his face and suddenly the bogling is behind him, scampering back down the passenger deck. Greez gives chase.

Just then, the main blast doors open and Cere appears on the other side, with Merrin just behind. She starts to say something, but then the bogling races past her with a terrified squeak and she cuts herself off. “Greez—”

Greez, on the other hand, is just relieved to see her. “Cere! Get the rat!” 

Cere hardly looks surprised. On the contrary, she breaks into an amused smile. “Oh, Greez.” She goes after the bogling, which has since climbed on top of the food counter and cornered itself by the jar of instant caf. Upon seeing her, it lets out a hiss and cowers against the wall.

“Hey, little guy…” Greez watches, slack-jawed, as Cere plucks a wasaka berry from the basket of fruit and offers it out to the bogling. “It’s alright, you’re safe.” The creature sniffs, its wide amber eyes narrowing in suspicion. It gingerly reaches out and accepts the berry from Cere’s outstretched hand. 

In disbelief, Greez turns to look at Merrin, who’s watching the scene unfold by the door. “Did you know about this?” He accuses, waving a hand the bogling. Merrin shrugs wordlessly, her lips pursed in amusement. That’s when it clicks for him. They’ve been in on the plot this entire time—Cere, Cal, even the newest member of their crew! Greez rounds on Cere, indignant. 

“How long has that thing been with us?” He jabs an accusatory finger at her. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

Cere turns back to look at him, the bogling now in her arms, eyes shut contentedly as she pets the creature’s head. She’s smiling in a patronising sort of way. “We’ve had it since our second trip to Bogano. The poor thing didn’t have a home; Cal decided to take it in.”

So it was _Cal’s_ idea, then. Greez makes a mental note to give that punk a piece of his mind once they get him back. 

“But don’t those things live underground?” He huffs. “They can’t be homeless! And I don’t care if Cal thought it needed a home—it’s a _rat._ It’s not staying on the Mantis.” As if understanding him, the bogling turns to focus its round, amber gaze on Greez, letting out an innocent chirp. Greez scowls at it. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Cere shakes her head. “Oh calm down, Greez. These guys are harmless.” She smiles down at the creature. “Plus, it seems to like it here. It’s a compliment to the Mantis, don’t you think?”

Despite Cere’s attempt at schmoozing him (which didn’t work, of course), Greez can already see that he’s fighting a losing battle. After all, it’s just him, a Latero, versus a sort-of Jedi and a nightsister. How is that fair? He sighs a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head. “Fine, fine! It can stay. For _now.”_ He wags a finger at the bogling. “Just don’t get in my way, ya hear me?”

Cere and Merrin exchange an amused look. Greez, on the other hand, decides he’s had enough. He’ll be having that cup of hot chocolate now. He might even decide to add some of the lum he keeps hidden in the upper cabinets—and it’s all that bogling’s fault. He sighs, going to retrieve the tin. “Anyone want some hot chocolate?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Cere and Merrin take seats at the table as Greez pulls out three mugs. From the corner of his eye, he sees the bogling leap out of Cere’s arms, scampering off to a new hiding place. He forces himself to take a deep, calming breath. _This is my life now._

“So what were you doing outside, anyway?” He asks, pouring out the mix. “Last I checked, it’s in the middle of the night.” 

There’s a short silence. Greez turns around to look at Cere. That’s when he notices two identical lightsabers, one on the table and one in her hand. “Whoa, where did you get those?” As far as he knows, they don’t belong to her. Anyway, didn’t she give hers to Cal?

She lifts one of the sabers, turning it so the dim light reflects the carved design on its surface. “It was Malicos’. They called to me.”

“Wait, hold on, hold on. Malicos?” Greez takes a step back, setting the tin down. “He’s still out there?!”

Cere shakes her head. “He’s long gone. Merrin and Cal took care of him.” Merrin nods to confirm this. “But the tomb…it took the sabers from him, somehow. And it chose me to retrieve them.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Greez points out. He may not know much about the Force and all that witch-stuff, but he knows enough to realise that taking things from supposedly sacred resting sites, even gifts, is never a good idea.

“That was what we believed as well,” Merrin explains. “That is, until we found a way to sever its connection to the tomb.” She nods at Cere, who ignites the saber in her hand. 

A blinding green blade appears where darkness had just been. Greez whistles, impressed. “Wow, Cere.” 

Cere smiles at him. Her eyes are shining; she looks younger, more hopeful than he’s ever seen her. He supposes he knows why, too. “You decided to become a Jedi again?”

Cere nods. “I repaired my connection to the Force, yes.” She deactivates the saber and sets it down. “I had to. The Fortress won’t be like anything we’ve faced before. We need to be prepared for the worst.” And she doesn’t say it, but it’s implied anyway: 

Without the Force as her ally— _their_ ally—Cere won’t be getting out alive. None of them will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> link to the idea folder: https://assets.adobe.com/public/72f282df-fa30-4f0b-6d11-59df569ab6ac


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